


things left unsaid

by 0neType, LyraLV



Series: a taste of sunshine [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Dreamtale, Alternate Universe - XTale, Angst, Arguing, Banter, Bath Sex, Break Up, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Numbness, Gentle Sex, Grinding, Hurt No Comfort, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Misunderstandings, Multi, Relationship Issues, Romance, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Smut, Tension, Terrible Apologies, Undertale Multiverse, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Relationship Guidebook: Talk Your Shit OutIn which there's more to a relationship than just the physical.
Relationships: Cream - Relationship, Cross/Dream, Cross/Killer, CrossMare - Relationship, DreamMare - Relationship, Killer/Dream, Killer/Nightmare, Killer/Nightmare/Dream/Cross, KillerCreamMare, KillerDream - Relationship, NightKiller - Relationship, Nightmare/Cross, Nightmare/Dream, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: a taste of sunshine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616464
Comments: 187
Kudos: 404





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🌙☀️
> 
> Here we go again~

Consciousness rolls in like gentle waves, lapping at the edges of his mind. Dream has no desire to wake up. Warmth blankets him from all sides, and the familiar presence of his brother is instantly recognizable and comforting. It encourages Dream to ease back into sleep, content in the safety of Nightmare’s arms.

A long minute trickles by before Dream realizes that the heat at his back and front can’t both be his brother. Frowning, he opens his eyes and is relieved that the heavy drapes in Nightmare’s room are pulled shut to keep any and all light out, minimal as it is in this world.

As his vision adjusts to the dark room, Dream sees his brother lying next to him, a hand interlocked with his while the other arm is wrapped tight around him. Nightmare is still lost within the throes of sleep, face slack and peaceful. The sight brings a smile to Dream’s face, and he shifts close enough to nuzzle his brother. Nightmare makes a soft noise that melts Dream’s soul as his brother unconsciously nuzzles back.

Loathe as Nightmare is to admit it, he can be utterly cute at times, reminding Dream of an age centuries past when his brother was just as endearing—but only in the moments when no one else was around except for the two of them. Dream thinks of the morning baths they took together when the sun was just starting to crest the horizon or when he and Nightmare curled up close, Dream’s back to his front while Nightmare tucked his head under his chin and held him in his arms. Of course, that kind of closeness had vanished once Nightmare corrupted, and Dream had almost lost hope of ever attaining it again. 

He’s grateful that they never gave up on each other however. Things have changed significantly between them since coming to an agreement, filling Dream with a restored hope that’s blossomed into joy every time his brother is just as open and inviting as he once was. As such, being able to witness this vulnerable side of Nightmare always makes Dream fall that much more in love, given how little he saw of it for so many years. 

It brings to mind an incident that occurred a few weeks ago, when they were both in Nightmare’s study and enjoying each other’s company as they chatted. Dream had felt a swell of affection at the kind smile Nightmare gave him, and he’d unthinkingly called his brother precious. Nightmare had gaped at him, cheeks turning a beautiful deep violet before he’d quickly glanced away. His frown and furrowed brow had bordered on a pout, which only served to heighten the adorable image, and Dream couldn’t resist kissing his flushed face.

Since then, he’s made an effort to compliment his brother more often. Dream doesn’t think Nightmare has ever received kind remarks like that. At least not ones that are fully genuine. Not for a long, long time.

He suspects he won’t be alone in carrying out this duty now either—memories of the previous night flood in, causing his cheeks to warm. He becomes all the more aware of the other arm that’s draped over his ribs and the two additional energies that are next to him and Night.

Shyly, he peeks over his brother’s shoulder. Killer is fast asleep, face pressed against the back of Nightmare’s neck. He’s protectively curled alongside him, latched around tight like he fears he’ll slip away. Dream can understand the sentiment. It’s something he struggled with when he first moved into the castle and his attraction towards his brother began to take root.

Thoughts of being found out, of Nightmare rejecting him and telling him to leave had plagued Dream almost daily. Up until Nightmare’s confession, Dream had agonized over keeping the feelings he had for him bottled up and secret, afraid of losing everything he had if he were to risk showing them. It would seem that he shouldn’t have ever doubted his twin, however. Wrapped as securely as he now is in his arms, Dream can’t believe his good fortune.

The possibility of becoming even happier once he and Nightmare got together hadn’t crossed his mind. It wasn’t for lack of something in their own relationship or a problem they just couldn’t resolve on their own. Dream is genuinely over the moon for his brother, a thought that makes him quickly stifle a laugh that threatens to bubble out. 

But the fact is that he’d taken notice of Cross long before he and Nightmare had begun their relationship. It wasn’t until recently that Dream realized his feelings towards the taller skeleton went beyond friendship. The attraction he felt for Cross continually pulled his gaze in the other’s direction as he often found himself staring contemplatively at him before realizing that his eyes had wandered at all. It didn’t help that during those many moments, Cross would usually have Killer at his hip, the two throwing harmless barbs at each other, which often ended with Killer leaning in to whisper something and Cross’s face turning a lovely purple swiftly after.

Dream remembers witnessing this on more than one occasion. There was a time during breakfast when a similar occurrence between the two happened at the table, and lost in his thoughts, Dream didn’t realize he’d been staring yet again until he saw Killer’s eyelight turn on him as he murmured something in Cross’s ear, grinning wide. The second Cross’s head had whipped in his direction, Dream had quickly looked back down at his food, cheeks burning. It was like the scenario with his brother all over again before they’d gotten together. Somehow, someway, Cross had become something more to Dream, and it wasn’t long after that that he began to feel a faintly similar way about Killer too. 

And here they all are now, together in bed against all odds. His soul feels full with emotion, positivity brimming within him and making Dream emit a happy hum as he settles against the soft sheets.

He’s tempted to fall back asleep now that he more or less has his bearings, but when he stretches out his legs, he accidentally bumps up against the other warm presence at his back. Stilling, Dream becomes like a statue, worried that he’s woken up Cross. The other doesn’t react to the sudden jostling though other than shifting closer in his sleep and nosing the top of Dream’s head as he tugs Dream closer to his chest. 

It’s such a simple action, affectionate and subtle. It completely unravels Dream.

To his embarrassment, a gentle golden glow shines in the room, and he presses his face into the comforter to try and recollect himself and quell the flush to his bones that persists. He just hasn’t felt such warmth and love twice over like this, especially not from Cross in such an intimate setting. Arguably, Dream isn’t even used to feeling it from Nightmare yet, so to sense it from Cross at the same time when he’s not awake either comes as a shock. It’s overwhelming and wonderful and unbelievably _frustrating_ at the present moment since it’s doing nothing to hide his obvious tells.

As Dream mopes, he feels a kiss, tender and loving, bestowed on his forehead.

“I can see why Killer calls you little light,” Nightmare whispers, and Dream flushes further. He must’ve been too caught up in his memories and emotions to have not noticed Nightmare waking up. Peeking out from his shield of covers, he playfully glowers, and his brother gives a sleepy smirk back down at him.

“C’mere.”

Despite his flustered state, Dream scoots up, movements as gentle as possible in order to not disturb Cross any further. Quick and easy, he meets Nightmare in a morning kiss, releasing a pleased sigh that his brother echoes. His sockets slip closed as he enjoys the feeling of being held and loved.

“This is early for you, brother,” Nightmare says against his mouth after a few long seconds, tongue teasingly flicking across his teeth.

Dream grins at him, sly as he nips Nightmare’s tongue and his brother mimics his almost-pout. “And late for _you_.”

“Seems we’re both a little mixed up today.”

Nightmare’s voice is a rumbling murmur, soft on his tongue even as it becomes increasingly obvious that both Cross and Killer are deep in sleep. Dream loves the sound of it, so different from what it had been like all those years ago but still so very Nightmare. His gaze is soft as he reaches out to stroke his brother’s face, soul pulsing steady and strong.

His brother stops him before he can, a tentacle curling tight around it.

Dream makes a muted noise of protest.

“There’ll be time for all this and more later, brother. For now, since we’re both up, we might as well bathe.” Nightmare’s smirk widens, “After all, who knows where that hand has been.”

Rolling his eyelights, Dream glares at him. “I believe _you_ know, seeing as how you were there for it.”

“Untrue. Someone didn’t see fit to invite me for the private one-on-one session they had with a certain knife aficionado. Anything could’ve happened then, and I would be none the wiser.”

Despite the way the words make his blush flare even hotter, Dream retorts, “Would you like a report, brother? A detailed summary?”

Even as he says it, he knows he’s playing right into Nightmare’s hands. The tentacle curled around his wrist loosens, slithering up the length of his arm and wrapping around Dream’s back. It draws him even closer, till his chest is pressed flushed to his brother’s and Nightmare’s luminescent teal eye is taking him in bit by bit. 

He leans in, trailing a kiss along Dream’s neck, breath ghosting over the sensitive vertebrae. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a... _debriefing_.”

It takes him a second, and then he’s snorting and slapping at Nightmare’s chest in reproach. A moment later, Nightmare’s quiet laughter follows, his ribs shaking with mirth. They look at each other, smiling, and Dream knows there’s no place he’d rather be but here.

“A little late for a debriefing,” Dream says, wiggling his bare pelvis against Nightmare’s and grinning at the way his brother’s hold tightens just fractionally where his tentacle is wrapped around him, “But I think I’ll take you up on that bath.”

“Mmm,” Nightmare agrees, dropping another light kiss to his forehead before shifting up and helping Dream do the same. 

He’s careful not to jostle Cross too much as he sits up, but it’s far easier for him than it is for Nightmare who has Killer practically glued to his side. Dream smothers a laugh as Killer makes a whiny noise of discontent as Nightmare extricates himself from the skeleton’s grasp, but he softens when he hears his brother automatically shush him and soothe the top of his head with a tendril. Almost immediately, Killer relaxes once more, hands gripping onto his pillow instead. Nightmare’s expression is tender in a way that only Dream can recognise, long used to reading minute shifts in his expression. 

When Nightmare catches him staring, he glares, embarrassment betrayed only by the burgeoning purple flush on his dark bones. “Shut up.”

Dream mimes zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. His brother rolls his eyelight.

“Come on,” Nightmare whispers.

Dream nods but doesn’t move right away. First, he turns back to make sure Cross is still fast asleep, the covers pulled snug over him. Reassured by the soft snoring he can hear, he drops a quick peck to the skeleton’s cheekbone and follows after Nightmare who has used his tentacles to ease him off the bottom edge of the bed without disturbing their bedmates on either side. Dream reaches out a hand towards him and Nightmare grabs on, gently tugging him forward and helping him slip off as well.

Once they’re both standing, Dream leaning onto Nightmare, he beams at his brother in triumph. Getting down without waking either Cross or Killer is no small feat. Nightmare snorts, but leans in to press a kiss to his teeth anyways.

Just before he can, Dream turns his head to the side and puts a hand in between them. When his brother furrows his browbones at him, confused, he smirks. “Bath first. Who _knows_ where that mouth’s been.”

Nightmare huffs, “Jerk.”

Dream only smiles wider.

A sudden chill cuts through him, and he shivers, becoming intimately aware that both he and Nightmare are completely bare in the cold room. It didn’t feel this chilly when he was under the covers and embraced on both sides. Nightmare ushers him over to the bathroom, a tentacle wrapping around his shoulders to help stave off the frigid air. Dream places a hand on it and gives him a small smile, receiving a squeeze back in response.

The bathroom lights up as soon as they step inside, and with it comes a subtle click- _click_ that instantly brings a delighted grin to Dream’s face. He stares down at the tiles and wiggles his toes.

“I love your heated floors,” he murmurs. The flats of his feet soak in the slowly awakening warmth rising beneath him.

Nightmare quietly shuts the door behind them, and the tendril embracing Dream slips away with a final parting rub. “To hear that after all this time, the only thing you love me for is my heated bathroom tiles.” Nightmare tsks. “I’m appalled, brother.”

“Oh, don’t be unreasonable.” Dream slips up behind him, curling his hands around his shoulders. He barely manages to keep the laughter out of his voice, face only tinting a bit as he says, “I love you for your dripping wet pussy too.”

Nightmare lets out a mock scandalized gasp, turning his head so that Dream can see the amusement in his soft teal eyelight. “Bite your tongue, Dream, or else I’ll be forced to clean out your filthy mouth with my dripping wet pussy.”

They both pause for a moment before dissolving into giggles, Dream smothering his snickering against Nightmare’s shoulder blade while his brother shakes with his own stifled laughter. He sighs contentedly, swaying against Nightmare and savoring the happiness swelling within him. His soul resonates with the positivity, and as Nightmare turns in his arms, fond smile brilliant in this shared moment, Dream wishes that it could always be like this.

But he knows there’s bound to be quite a few hills to overcome in the following hours, mainly centered around what happened last night. The way Nightmare’s smile slips a bit informs him that he’s well-aware of what’s looming ahead too.

They could talk about it now. Hash out everything that occurred and clear out the muddiness of last night between them. 

But... it’s still early. And when Nightmare reaches up, the backs of his fingers lightly running down Dream’s cheek, Dream decides to put all restless thoughts behind him until later. They have plenty of time to sort out things after they wash up.

“Shall I run the water in the bath, or would you prefer a shower?”

It comes as no surprise that his brother is on the same wavelength as him in this as well. Dream presses an appreciative kiss to the hand against his cheek.

“Bath, of course,” he says, lightly bouncing in place with both anticipation and a need to warm himself up. The bathroom isn’t much more forgiving than the bedroom, though the stinging cold might just be due to his lack of clothes.

Nightmare snorts. “ _Of course_.” He heads over to the bath and twists the knobs, hot water rushing out and beginning to fill the tub. “Why would I ever think that after all the other times I’ve asked, your answer would change?”

Dream follows him over, propping himself up on the tub’s ledge and stretching his legs out to roll his ankles with a satisfying pop. “Probably for the same reason that you never tell me why you prefer to use the shower _all the time_.”

“Someone’s in a lying mood today,” Nightmare teases. “I seem to recall bending to your requests to share a bath on a number of occasions. And as for my preference, it’s a matter of efficiency. A shower is simple. I don’t have to wait forever for an oversized basin to fill.”

“ _But_ you also have to stand the whole time you’re washing yourself,” Dream counters. “Sounds like the exact opposite of a fun time.”

He watches Nightmare slip back to his feet, near quiet save for the constant dripping of his tentacles as he rounds Dream. He leans down and places both hands on the tub’s ledge on either side of him, nosing against his cheek but denying him a kiss when Dream tries to meet him halfway. A chuckle escapes at Dream’s pout.

“Well, why don’t you tell me what your idea of a fun time in the shower is? Anything in mind, little brother?”

It’s only been a few months since the night his brother kissed Dream and set them on the path of their exciting, new relationship. Even with all the private moments they’ve crammed together in the short span since then, even after all the… creative uses of their time, Dream’s face lights up and grows hotter when Nightmare’s hands slide onto his femurs, his brother slipping to his knees before him. 

Dream’s breath catches, and Nightmare grins.

“Something like this, then? Do you want me on my knees for you, Dream? It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it?”

It has.

Nightmare has had a few difficult weeks balancing his emotions, the negativity running rampant within him. Like that, it was near impossible to get his brother to back down from a fight or to pull him away from a spiral of oozing, black thoughts. With that in mind, he might as well have forgotten getting Nightmare to take on a submissive role or give up an ounce of control.

If last night’s performance is to be taken into consideration though, it seems as if his brother is finally levelling out again. It’s a relief to be sure. Dream hated seeing Nightmare so at odds with himself, his desires split and his mood dark and uneasy.

“While I’m reluctant to turn you down,” Dream says, soft and shuddering, “You’ll only feel sore from the tiles if we do that here, Night. It’s too hard a surface on bare bone.”

Nightmare snorts, “Like the rest of me isn’t sore already.”

Dream chuckles and Nightmare grins at him, making his soul squeeze. It’s still such a novel experience, seeing those easy smiles from his brother again after all these centuries. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it.

“Fine,” Nightmare sighs, getting up again, “Then let’s change location, shall we?”

All at once, Nightmare’s tentacles shoot out and wrap around Dream, centering around his waist and supporting his back as well as under his knees. Dream yelps, startled, but a delighted laugh works out of him as Nightmare pulls him in close to his chest, dropping a kiss to his forehead. His brother strokes a hand down his face, fond, and Dream beams at the attention. 

Finally, Nightmare walks around to the small marble steps that lead up the side of the tub. He eases over the edge with the help of his hands and with Dream still carried in the grasp of his tentacles. As soon as they’re both in, Nightmare carefully releases Dream on the floor of the tub as the water continues to fill in around them.

Like much of Nightmare’s possessions, the tub is exquisite. It’s square shaped, made of beautiful white marble run through with emerald. The tiles along the bottom of the tub are a pretty blue that makes the water look like a tropical escape. It’s got depth to it too, and Dream knows from experience that if he sits and lets the tub fill up, the warmth of the water will reach all the way up to his neck with ease. The only thing it lacks is a deluge of space, so sitting in it together with Nightmare has them pressed up into each other. Not uncomfortably, but close.

Dream loves it.

He hasn’t said as much to Nightmare but the reason he loves taking baths so much is how good it feels to have an excuse to be close to his brother like this. He’s sure Nightmare would laugh and mention something about how Dream has plenty of opportunities to be close to him now that they’re in a relationship, but it’s just different like this. Reminiscent of their old days, bathing and being near each other, warm and content.

A shower just isn’t the same.

“You alright?”

Dream stirs out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”

“You were looking a little unfocused,” Nightmare says, running his phalanges through the water, now at waist level where they sit. “Care to discuss what has you so distracted, brother?”

“Mmm, just thinking about how lucky I am to be here with you.”

Nightmare gives an exasperated sigh, but the sudden blush on his face reveals what he won’t say. Dream smiles at him, leaning into his side and settling against his brother with a hum. After a moment, Nightmare’s arm comes up around his shoulders and pulls him subtly closer.

“... I feel the same,” his twin mumbles.

The surge of happiness that swells within him is enough to make his brother flinch. Dream turns his head into Nightmare’s shoulder, pressing an apologetic kiss to it. “Sorry! I got a little excited, heheh.”

“It’s fine; it doesn’t bother me. Just not used to it is all,” Nightmare says, rubbing his thumb where it rests along Dream’s clavicle, “But I have plenty of time ahead to learn.”

His words make Dream flush again, quiet and pleased. He doesn’t add anything more to the conversation, content to watch as the water in the tub rises. It reaches about halfway up their chests before his brother finally turns the tap off, a gentle silence following the absence of its rushing. The warmth of the water is a soothing relief to his bones. Dream sighs, relaxed.

He lazily kicks his legs in the tub, enjoying the soothing sensation around and in between the bones. They really do need to scrub off the remnants of last night, but the water is set so deliciously at the right temperature. Nightmare’s tentacles are splayed out, tapered ends coiled on the blue tiled floor. Even through the distortion of the water, Dream can see just how thoroughly they need to be cleaned.

If they’re going to finish before the bath turns cold, he and Nightmare need to start washing now.

Blinking away the sluggish feeling the warmth and comfort brings him, Dream lifts his head from his brother’s shoulder and looks at him. What he sees brings a wide smile to his face, amazed at the image of Nightmare peacefully nodding off, chest rising and falling with even breaths. He really must be tired to be creeping back into sleep while sitting up. It’s so very rare to see him like this in the morning, early riser that he is, and Dream internally coos.

Precious.

Unfortunately for the both of them, it’s time to wake up and get their day started. Otherwise, Dream’s going to be tempted to fall asleep with his brother right here in the tub. As wonderful as that idea sounds now, he also knows from past experience that waking up in cold bathwater is far from delightful.

“Night,” Dream whispers.

His brother groans. “’M awake...”

Dream laughs. “I’m sure you are, but we should probably use this bath for its intended purpose instead of falling asleep. If you really want to go back to bed, we can probably catch another hour of shuteye if we hurry up in here.”

“Absolutely not,” Nightmare murmurs, eyesocket barely opening. “We can’t let those other two fools think we’re lazy.”

“ _Nightmare_ ,” Dream says, tone exasperated and adoring. His brother smiles as soon as he hears it, and Dream finally catches sight of beautiful teal staring back at him. 

“It’s not even half past seven yet,” Dream continues. Nightmare nods.

“Terribly late, I know.”

“For you maybe. I like the sun to be up before me, even though there is no sun in your world.”

“In _our_ world, you mean. And besides, that statement isn’t true at all.” Nightmare’s tentacles come to life once more, curling around Dream’s waist and pulling him close, and Dream’s legs slot on either side of his as he sits on his brother’s lap. He flushes under the low-lidded gaze Nightmare gives him, already having an idea of what he’s about to say. His brother proves as much when he leans back, satisfaction brimming in his emotions. “You’re here, after all. I’d say this place has the brightest sunshine than any other.”

Dream grins abashedly. “Oh, quiet, you. That’s enough turning on the charm for now.”

“Am I supposed to save that for later?”

“Yes, after we do what we came in here to do.”

“Which is...?”

“Not go to sleep. I think we’re going to have our hands full today, and I don’t w— Night! You don’t even snore!”

His brother’s fake snoring shifts back into tired chuckles that let Dream know just how exhausted he must feel. Playful as he can be sometimes, Nightmare doesn’t often act this way unless he’s desperately needing sleep. A thought occurs to Dream that maybe he didn’t sleep much at all last night.

Before he can voice his concern, Nightmare sighs and waves it away. “Stop your worrying already, brother. I’m _fine_. I seem to recall you and me going three rounds between the four of us.”

Dream’s frown deepens. “Yes, but that’s the whole point. We both had an equally exhausting evening.” He stares at him, brow furrowed as his mind races, and Nightmare looks down, away from his searching gaze. It’s enough to give Dream a tip as to what’s wrong, and he sags.

“It’s too immense, isn’t it? The positivity.”

Nightmare grunts. “Not as excessive as it is overbearing. Feeling it from you is one thing, Dream. Feeling it from you, Killer, and Cross at once is another.”

“Does it hurt?”

At this Nightmare looks up once more so that Dream can see the truth in his eye. “No. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just so...”

“Much,” Dream says, muted.

His brother reads through the lines, hears what he’s not saying, and his hand reaches up, droplets of water running down his arm as he rests his palm against Dream’s sternum, right over his soul. “I’m certain I will adapt to it with time. As I recall, you had to deal with much the same when you first began living here.”

The reminder gives him pause. It’s true, of course, and at the time they had known even less about how the balance of emotions worked than they do now, thanks to months of working side-by-side. Back then, it had been frightening, Dream slowly growing weaker and weaker. Nightmare had been infuriated by Dream’s stubborn demand to remain in the castle despite it. But it had worked out in the end, unwittingly proving something neither of them had expected.

Dream wasn’t getting weaker, really. He was keeping the balance.

In Nightmare’s castle, negativity reigned. When Dream, beacon of positivity, entered a place so starved of it, the natural balance of the world demanded equilibrium. It drained him to be sure, exhausted him and made him slow and sluggish, but the positivity didn’t simply disappear like they’d originally thought.

No, it was redistributed throughout the world. Namely, to the inhabitants of the castle. As Dream got more and more tired, Dust spoke more. Horror shared more of his meals. Cross’ smiles became increasingly frequent and Killer’s jokes were far less self-deprecating. And gradually, the positivity they generated fed right back into him.

After the initial drain and struggle—a terrible week where Dream felt dizzy and ill and Nightmare very nearly ripped a portal open directly to one of Dream’s friends—he started to recover. The aura that had left him grew bright in the monsters it balanced, and they, in turn, grew into beacons of their own. Once strengthened with their own positive thoughts, they energised Dream with stronger hopes and genuine smiles, ending the sickly feelings that plagued him.

Balance was restored.

The process takes longer for Nightmare.

Much, much longer.

Whereas Dream has only one apple to account for, Nightmare has hundreds to his name. With Dream’s arrival in the castle, his twin’s balancing act had started as well, but at a much slower pace. It is clear that only now, months after Dream had fully recovered, Nightmare has finally started to feel the negativity drain from him to maintain that tentative new equilibrium.

Dream places his hand over Nightmare’s on his chest, rubbing it softly with his thumb. “I know... I just worry.”

Nightmare turns his palm, taking Dream’s hand in his own and bringing it up to his mouth. He drops a kiss to it, tender. Dream shivers, which makes Nightmare’s gleaming eyelight twinkle with satisfaction. “I will be sure to tell you if anything feels egregiously wrong.”

“Mmm,” Dream murmurs, reluctant to pull his hand back from Nightmare’s grasp but doing it all the same. Once freed, he turns to grab the soap and bath sponges. “Then I suppose we might as well get on with it.”

“What’s this? No excitement?”

“It’s a bath time scrub, Night. Not exactly the most riveting activity.”

“Afraid of a little clean-up, brother? You were so eager to get dirty, the fallout should’ve been expected.”

Dream pouts at him, the flush returning to his cheekbones at the tease. Instead of answering, he pointedly ignores Nightmare and soaps up his sponge, lathering it before holding out his arm and rubbing the bone clean. He can hear his brother laugh softly, his body shifting underneath Dream.

In the very next moment, Nightmare snatches the sponge away with a tentacle.

“ _Nightmare!_ ”

The monster in question wraps his arms around Dream’s middle, pulling him into a close embrace, water swishing around them. Nightmare rests his chin on Dream’s shoulder, tucking his head into the curve of his neck. The tentacle holding the bath sponge disappears from Dream’s vision, but it’s obvious where it went when Dream feels Nightmare drag it slowly down the back of his spine. He can’t help the gasp the sensation startles out of him.

“It doesn’t have to be a chore,” his brother purrs, breath tickling the side of Dream’s vertebrae, “Let me help make things a little more _interesting_.”

Again, the sponge drags down his spine, more firmly this time. Dream’s soul pounds underneath his ribcage, pressed so closely to Nightmare’s own that he’s sure his brother must feel it. He resists the urge to shift, suddenly very aware of the way his pelvis is situated right on top of Nightmare’s. He focuses instead on the quiet swirling of the water as Nightmare’s tendrils curl and uncurl on the floor of the tub, brushing against his legs.

Dream swallows. “I thought we came in here to get clean...”

Nightmare pulls back with a smirk and a raised browbone. “When did I ever suggest otherwise?”

Face growing hotter and unable to deny his own lurid thoughts, he says, “Give me a tentacle.” 

The response only confirms Nightmare’s sly needling, his sharp grin curving up higher. 

“Where do you want it?” he asks.

“ _In my hand_.” Dream glowers at him, his own mouth twitching with his efforts to not smile.

Nevertheless, Nightmare acquiesces and lifts a dripping tentacle out of the water and lays the end of it flat in Dream’s waiting hand. He leans back, resting his arms on the ledge of the bathtub as he gives Dream a pointedly patient look, posture relaxed and open in a way that reads like an invitation. It sends a trace of warmth down to Dream’s pelvis, bone shining just the faintest hint of golden in the water.

Unfortunately, Dream knows his brother doesn’t have to look down to note his interest. Even if they weren’t pressed up as close as they are, bodies aligned so perfectly in this position, their ability to always feel the other’s emotions is a dead giveaway. Like a feedback loop, Dream senses a small burst of desire from Nightmare in response to his own, and it just further encourages his desire.

Shuddering, he tries to focus on the task at hand. The tentacle cupped loosely in his grip flicks remnant drops of water up at him, and Dream flinches.

“Hey!”

“Oops.” Nightmare sounds far from apologetic, his pleased snickers dragging a loud sigh from Dream. He wipes the water off his face and grabs another sponge. It’s impossible to lather it up one-handed, so he drops the tentacle between him and Nightmare to grab the soap with his free hand. Water sprays up as the tentacle makes a hearty splash, dousing Nightmare and getting Dream a fair bit in the process, but it’s worth it for the glare he receives in return. 

Soaping up the sponge in hand, Dreams shrugs and says, “Oops.”

He hums happily as Nightmare continues to scowl at him, doing nothing to wipe the drops running down his skull. Dream can’t sense any real annoyance from him though, only begrudging admiration and petulance, and it makes him bite back a grin. He grabs the abandoned tentacle once more and begins to wash it soothingly around the tip.

It’s clear that his brother isn’t about to be beat, and the sponge at Dream’s spine resumes rubbing the sensitive bones once more. With a wavering breath, he struggles to keep his attention fixed on the tentacle he’s cleaning, and as he scrubs away at the filth, the sponge turns a faint but distinct hint of purple.

He knows the color of Nightmare’s magic intimately, having become quite well-acquainted with it in the past few months, and he doesn’t need a closer look to realize that that the hue coated on the tendril isn’t his.

“Would you look at that,” his brother murmurs. Dream glances up. Nightmare proudly assesses the tentacle and sponge before meeting his eye. “Looks like you’ve struck gold. Well, actually no, I suppose Cross already beat you to that and took it all for himself.” Nightmare’s grin turns sharp. “He definitely seemed to enjoy the taste of it. Got quite the mouthful.”

Choosing to ignore the lewd innuendo and the bolt of lust it shoots through him, Dream asks, “Do I want to know what you did to him last night?” He can’t help but feel a mix of curiosity and concern. Beneath that, his traitorous desire stirs, and he feels a keen want to taste Cross himself.

“I think you know the answer to that question, little brother,” Nightmare says candidly. His hands clasp Dream’s hips, and without warning, he rolls his own, pressing Dream down and grinding against him.

Dream gasps, unmoored with nothing to hold onto but the sponge and tentacle. He squeezes both, and Nightmare shudders, expertly moving Dream in a way that intensifies the heat, and Dream swallows a moan. Like this, Nightmare’s own arousal is obvious with his pelvis burning just as hotly against Dream’s, the clash of their pubic bones rubbing together softened by the warm water.

Nightmare groans, content with moving the both of them to their liking and slowly working Dream and himself up. There’s no rush, no desperate scramble or claiming like their time in the foyer last night. This is unhurried as they savor the stolen moment of intimacy between them.

Dream’s magic tingles, shapeless and yearning, but he resists. They can’t afford to be distracted just yet. Not until after they’ve actually made an effort to get clean. Otherwise, it’s unlikely this bath time will be in any way productive as past experience has dictated.

Nightmare runs the sponge teasingly along Dream’s vertebrae, and Dream’s breath hitches.

“Night... W-wait, please.”

As soon as Dream utters the request, Nightmare halts, opening his half-lidded eye and watching him intently for any sign of discomfort. Dream smiles reassuringly, still shivering despite the warm water. If they don’t get a move on, it won’t be warm for long.

A bit sorry for bringing an abrupt end to their fun, Dream says, “We really should at least wash up first. I don’t want us to be too tired to finish our bath if we wear ourselves out.”

Nightmare huffs, tension easing away at Dream’s reassurance. He sighs.

“You have a point. No sense in needlessly adding to our exhaustion just yet.” He tilts his head, eyeing the bathroom door in a way that indicates he’s really looking past it and studying the sleeping occupants in the bedroom. Nightmare makes a contemplative noise. “Seems like they’re close to waking up, if their emotions are anything to judge by. We might be getting some company soon.”

Dream also focuses on the subtle percolation of both positive and negative feelings beyond the bathroom. It’s all neutral right now, which suggests that Cross and Killer are either on the verge of waking up or just merely re-entering a dreamless sleep.

It’s likely the former, at least for Cross since he’s usually up before Dream on a given day. Occasionally, on the nights that Dream slept in his own room instead of his brother’s, he’d receive a gentle wake-up call the following morning in the form of Cross knocking on his door and softly calling his name. It didn’t happen every day for sure, but Dream has to admit that he looked forward to those brief little interactions. Cross never showed up empty-handed either—often stopping by just to wake Dream up for breakfast while holding a steaming cup of coffee or tea made just for him. 

It’s no wonder Dream fell for him as fast as he did. Cross has a kind soul and smile that has always made Dream’s own soul feel weightless. Perhaps they rushed into things too fast last night, but Dream can’t say he regrets being with Cross. He’s wanted him for a long while now, and that attraction only grew once his brother gave his blessing.

He looks back at Nightmare and then down at the clean tip of the tentacle in his hand before lightly kissing it.

“Guess we’d better get a move on then, huh?” With a tiny smile, he places the tentacle back in the water and rests his hand on Nightmare’s chest, fingertips curling around a rib. “And then, if you’re still awake enough for a little uninterrupted fun afterwards...”

Nightmare smirks, eyesocket narrowing at the slight challenge. “I guess that all depends on if you’re able to keep up.”

“Stamina has never been an issue for me, brother dearest,” Dream sing-songs, “I’d expect you to know that _intimately_.”

Nightmare snickers, and Dream grins at him, bright. 

With a hum of approval, Nightmare picks up his sponge again and resumes washing Dream’s back. It’s obvious that his brother is finally geared towards actual clean-up when his touch drifts away from his spine and curves over his ribs instead. Dream takes a moment to study the focus on Nightmare’s face, resisting the urge to kiss him. It would only distract them from the task at hand all over again.

He sighs and reaches into the water to pick up another tentacle, squeezing the sponge a few times to get it sudsy before passing it over the length of the appendage. It’s unfairly cute how docile Nightmare is as Dream washes him. His tentacles remain on their best behaviour, hanging near limp in Dream’s grasp as he thoroughly scrubs them. He can tell whenever Nightmare particularly enjoys it because they gently swish in his grasp, along with a low purr rumbling from his brother’s direction.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dreams whispers, smug.

Nightmare levels him with an unimpressed look which only makes Dream cackle. Rolling his eyelight, Nightmare straightens himself up. His pelvis brushes against Dream’s like a reminder. Dream shudders slightly at the soreness that comes with it, both a spark of arousal and a memento from all the strain of their activities last night.

He redirects his attention back towards his brother and away from the satisfying ache in his bones.

Not to be beat, Nightmare scrubs deftly along the back of Dream’s scapulae and over his shoulders. He pauses only to resoap the sponge in his hand before getting back to work, careful attention to detail as he cleans between the gaps in Dream’s joints. Nightmare is meticulous, brow furrowed as he concentrates. The tip of his tongue sticks out, unconscious as he fixates on his task, and the sight of it makes deep affection swell within Dream.

Nightmare looks up at him, in tune with the sway of his emotions. “Something the matter?”

Dream shakes his head. “No, nothing.”

His brother snorts, turning back to the task at hand. Dream smiles as Nightmare smoothes the sponge over the front of his ribs, his touch delicate over his sternum. Done with Nightmare’s tentacles, he does much the same, relathering his bath sponge and brushing it over Nightmare’s shoulders.

The bones are solid under his touch, their semi-fluid appearance notwithstanding. Even after all this time, Dream is surprised at how no goop falls away from them no matter how he scrubs. He knows that their consistency depends on just how much negativity his brother is overflowing with—knows that it’s only on a particularly bad day that Nightmare is likely to stain anything with the tar that covers his form—but somehow it throws him all the same. He thinks on it as he continues to scrub away the evidence of last night, brushing back and forth over the expanse of his brother’s ribcage.

Despite Nightmare’s earlier insistence that he was no longer sleepy, Dream can tell that the repetitive motion lulls him back into a drifting state. His ribcage rises and falls with breaths he doesn’t need to take, his socket drooping with relaxation. Dream’s soul squeezes tight at how unguarded Nightmare looks like this.

It occurs to him, not for the first time, just how much he loves his brother.

Unable to resist, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Nightmare’s mouth, quick and chaste.

“Mrmm?” Nightmare drowsily looks up at him. “What was that for?”

“Because I love you,” Dream answers, not hesitating a second.

He hears Nightmare’s breath catch, sees the subtle widening of his eyelight like it’s the first time he’s heard Dream say those words. Dream’s told him as much countless times, but everything is still so very new and fresh between them. Nightmare stares at him like he’s something special, something to be treasured, and the slight tremble in his hands that hold Dream tenderly is just as telling as the reciprocated feelings Dream catches from him.

“I love you, too,” Nightmare says, quiet but no less truthful. He gives Dream a small smile, a hand coming up to lightly grip his shoulder. Following the gentle guidance of his hand, Dream leans forward and lets Nightmare pull him into a slow kiss. It’s the most delicate press of teeth against teeth, quiet breaths exchanged between them. 

Nightmare tilts his head just a bit to the side, creating scant enough space to ask, “Does this mean my mouth is now clean to your standards, brother?”

A chortle escapes Dream, and he pulls back only a little to see Nightmare clearly. 

“Hmm...” Dream lifts a browbone, considering. “I think it could do with a little more cleaning. Your mouth _is_ especially filthy, after all.”

“Not any more so than yours is.” Nightmare’s hands squeeze around him, and Dream’s soul quivers with excitement, anticipation sharpening at the familiar look in his brother’s eye. “Maybe we could help each other out with that.”

“I’d love nothing more,” Dream says, already leaning back down to meet him in another kiss. Nightmare happily reciprocates, parting his teeth when Dream licks them and then moaning as Dream’s tongue pushes past. Their kiss, sweet moments before, takes a fast, heated turn. Dream’s hands come to rest on Nightmare’s shoulders while his brother’s own slide over his ribs and dig inward. 

They’re both making far too much noise, their moans loud as they kiss while the bath water sloshes with their grinding once more.

Lost in the embrace, Dream doesn’t notice just how sudsy the tub floor has become, slick from the soap, until his knee is slipping too far to the side. He yelps as all of his weight crashes against Nightmare, fully unbalanced. His brother only has a moment to give a startled gasp before they’re both falling backwards in the tub, Nightmare taking Dream with him on a sudden, unanticipated dive. The moment they go underwater, Dream’s skull fills with the soapy liquid, rushing up his nasal cavity and pushing against his clenched sockets. He inhales an unpleasant amount before Nightmare pushes him back, lifting both of their heads out of the water and situating himself and Dream upright again.

They cough raggedly, and Dream spits out the foul tasting soap. He hears Nightmare wheeze, likely feeling the same unpleasant burn from breathing in the suds like Dream did. Dream furiously wipes a hand at his eyes and then cautiously squints them open. There’s a slight itch around the edges of his sockets, but nothing too unmanageable. In fact, now that they’re recovering from the slip-up, the situation is downright funny. He blinks at his brother, a stunned laugh just beginning to slip out when it’s suddenly caught in his throat.

As he finally gets a good look at Nightmare once more, a raw, strangled sound leaves Dream.

He stares, dumbfounded.

Nightmare has scrubbed at his sockets as well, trying to dispel the soapy water from them. He blearily focuses on Dream again, and the sight of not one but two eyelights meeting Dream’s own delivers a powerful shock.

He’s seen Nightmare’s other eye before. Knows that even hidden behind the nearly perpetual layer of inky substance, his brother’s right eye still functions almost as well as his uncovered one. He had once described it as just having poorer vision in that eye, foggy around the edges but clear in the middle.

It’s so very rare for Dream to see it. Even now, the novelty doesn’t stem from the few occasions Nightmare has revealed it to him. Instead, what fills Dream with awe is the shocking representation of who Nightmare used to be before this all happened. A final trace of someone Dream knew centuries ago, lingering even after all this time and merging harmoniously—a perfect culmination that has led to the monster Dream has fallen for with his entire being.

Bemusedly, Nightmare looks back at him with a beautiful mismatched pair of teal and purple eyelights.

It’s obvious the sudden silence is strange to his brother. Slipping in the bath is pretty high on the list of what Dream would laugh at and what Nightmare would subsequently tease him for. The switch from their usual makes concern sneak its way into his twin’s voice.

“What’s wrong?”

In lieu of a response, Dream reaches out to cup the side of Nightmare’s face, stroking just underneath his uncovered eye with his thumb. The violet is striking, searching his gaze. It matches perfectly with the soft hue of the blush rising on Nightmare’s cheeks. The moment is quiet, water dripping from his arm into the bath around them, a tranquil sound.

Dream rests his head in the curve of Nightmare’s neck, tilting his head up to kiss his jaw. Nightmare shivers, his arms rewrapping around him. Dream presses in closer, nibbling along his neck and stroking that same cheek while watching the pretty flush to Nightmare’s bones increase.

“Dream?” His brother asks, hushed.

He resituates himself properly, his pelvis snug against Nightmare’s own. His magic is still heated, and a careful roll of his hips proves that Nightmare’s is much the same. His brother’s grip tightens at the movement and Dream meets his gaze once more, soul twisting up at the dual-toned eyelights he sees. 

“I want you, Night.”

Nightmare’s features soften and the urge to kiss him again and again grows ever stronger. His brother huffs out a laugh, running the back of his phalanges down the side of Dream’s face. “It’s a wonder you aren’t sore after everything last night.”

“Oh, I am,” Dream grins at him, golden flush darkening at the reminder. He waggles his browbones suggestively at his brother anyways. “And I’m sure I’ll be aching even more after this is over, but... that doesn’t stop me from wanting you all the same.”

“Then you can have me,” Nightmare says, watching him back avidly, and the words send a rush of heat between Dream’s legs. Together, he and Nightmare slowly shift over towards the side of the tub, Nightmare’s back propped against it as they retake their former positions. This time, Dream places his hands on the tub’s ledge on either side of Nightmare, keeping a firm hold to ensure he doesn’t slip again. One of Nightmare’s hands wraps around Dream’s lower spine, phalanges curling just tight enough to cause a shiver to travel through his bones. His other hand takes ahold of Dream’s iliac crest.

It’s seamless to fall into another kiss, just as it is to begin grinding against each other once more, finding a rhythm that has them gasping and pressing closer still. The chill from earlier has completely vanished, the air growing even more heated with every passing second. On the next roll of his hips, Dream feels Nightmare’s magic form, soft and warm against his pubis, and Dream’s arms tremble as his fingers almost slip along the ledge. Nightmare pushes his tongue into his mouth, and Dream moans, following his lead and letting his own flickering magic take shape.

Nightmare’s pussy feels amazing sliding against his own, and with renewed fervor, Dream rubs their clits together. Their mutual groans are muffled. He sucks on his brother’s tongue, loving the way it curls along his own, and just like all the other times, he finds that he only wants more, wants to fill the nonexistent space between them and cherish Nightmare with everything he has. 

His brother seems to be of the same mindset, letting Dream set the pace in favor of roving his hands over Dream’s body, caressing and clutching at him. This moment is meant purely for them alone, their souls almost seeming to beat as one in their chests. Dream feels like he can’t get enough of Nightmare, circling his hips and savoring every single choked-off moan and whimper he hears.

Dipping his head, Nightmare breaks the kiss and bites along Dream’s jawline, working his way down to his neck. Stars shine behind his clenched sockets, and he tilts his head to make more room for him. 

“Dream,” Nightmare whispers, sounding starved and needy for more. He cups the back of Dream’s head with one hand, cradling it as he licks his vertebrae, the finer points of his teeth scraping against sensitive bone and making Dream cry out. 

His cunt clenches as he nears the edge, and though it feels utterly amazing, it’s not enough stimulus. He whimpers and claws at the ledge, rolling his hips harder, trying to give them both what they need. He’s gasping for air as his frustration builds, and Nightmare gently hushes him.

“Here, let me.” He scoots Dream’s lower half back, hands settling on his hips as he first folds his legs underneath himself and then positions Dream over one of his femurs. Nightmare sits Dream on top of it, bone slotting right between the lips of Dream’s pussy, and he slowly begins to move it side to side, all the while using his tender grip on Dream’s hips to encourage him to grind against his leg.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Dream breathes, the pressure just right against the sensitive nub of his conjured flesh. “But what about—”

“Shh, don’t worry about me. There will be plenty of time for that after you’re satisfied.”

A part of him feels guilty simply taking from Nightmare like this, especially when he was the focus of last night’s activities three times over, but it’s impossible to argue with his brother. Even as Dream starts to protest again, he can see the shine of Nightmare’s eyelights, the satisfaction within them at being able to provide for Dream like this. It must quieten some listless part of his brother to be in control like this again, especially after letting go so abruptly yesterday with no prior discussion of boundaries and limits. It’s not exactly the kind of ’aftercare’ he normally sanctions, but if it’s what Nightmare wants, Dream will give it to him.

He grinds back into Nightmare’s femur. “If you’re sure.” 

Grinning, his brother ups the pace, rubbing his thigh side to side faster and rotating it as best he can from his seated position. It’s tantalizing. Dream is still sensitive from the previous night, but the edge of pain only heightens the sensation that much more. Once again, he braces his hands on either side of Nightmare’s head along the edge of the tub. Dream grips tight, stabilizing himself, the tension in his body mounting. His mouth falls open, hot, wet pants escaping from it.

“ _Hh_ , Nightmare...”

His brother presses a kiss to his sternum, stroking his spine and his ribs in tandem. “I never get tired of hearing the way you say my name like that.”

Dream’s face is flushed already, but it deepens at the soft words. He can’t help the moan that works its way out of his throat with the next grind, hard bone pressing into his clit. Though the water is quick to wash away any overflowing mess, slick gathers where he and Nightmare are pressed together, no space for anything else to come between them. The smooth glide of his brother’s femur between the lips of his pussy rack the pleasure up further till Dream is shaking with it.

“Oh... Night, I’m... I think I’m...”

Another kiss, this one over the left crest of his ribs, beneath which his soul glows a brilliant gold. 

“Go ahead, brother. I want to feel it.”

The urgency to come increases and Dream keens, rocking his hips and feeling the tingling sensation amp up till it stands at the precipice of release. His body trembles in anticipation. He tries to keep his eyes open—doesn’t want to miss the way Nightmare’s pretty eyelights keep watch over him, silent and protective.

“Dream...” Nightmare murmurs, reverent, and the love in his brother’s voice makes his breath catch.

His soul beats too fast in his chest, his emotions soaring, and that’s all he needs really, that and the final bit of pressure as Nightmare grips his pelvis tight and grinds his femur up into him, rubbing firmly against his clit and making Dream’s pussy throb.

“Hey, is it alright if Killer and I—”

“Hhn, _fuck_!” Dream’s orgasm crashes over him just as Cross walks into the bathroom, their eyelights connecting from across the room.

“I—” Within the span of a second, Cross’ sockets go wide, his face flooding with colour. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—”

“What is it, Cross?” Nightmare says, and if it wasn’t for the sudden rise of a flush to his face, Dream would think him entirely unaffected. Still, his focus is entirely on Dream as he drops a hand down in between them, stroking Dream’s clit with his phalanges as he lengthens his climax. Dream moans, shuddering through yet another wave of pleasure, his head still turned in Cross’ direction and in perfect view of the way his blush grows darker with each passing moment.

“Uh—nothing, I just—” It’s obvious Cross doesn’t know quite where to look. His eyelights dart up to the ceiling and then to the floor and then back again to watch them in embarrassed resignation. “I—I knocked but neither of you responded, and I didn’t hear the water running so I figured it was fine since the door wasn’t locked—”

“ _Cross_ ,” His brother intones, finally withdrawing his fingers, but not without the final press of a kiss to Dream’s mouth. Dream notes that his right socket is covered once more, the violet hidden away. “Get on with it.”

The order seems to ground him; Cross visibly stiffens. He snaps his mouth shut and straightens up, considering, before looking into the middle distance between them and speaking up. “I was wondering if you’d be okay with Killer and I using your shower. If we walked back to our rooms, Dust and Horror might see us and, uh... considering the state our clothes are in, it might give away more information than strictly necessary.”

Nightmare smirks and finally turns his head to regard Cross with an amused look. “By that logic, are you requesting to borrow some of my clothes as well?”

Dream can see Cross’s mind come to a halt as he realizes he didn’t factor in that part of the equation. “...Oh.”

Catching his breath, Dream smiles at him, cheeks still just as flushed as Cross’s. Fighting through his mixed feelings of embarrassment and fading arousal at being caught, he clears his throat and says, “If you don’t mind waiting, Night and I will be finished here soon. I have some spare clothes of my own in his closet, so once I get dressed, I can go fetch you and Killer something to wear from your rooms.”

Cross visibly softens at the gesture, a shy smile of his own forming as he braves making eye contact with Dream once more. He opens his mouth, but Nightmare speaks before he can utter a word.

“That won’t be necessary. While I have no issue with you two cleaning off here, I believe it would be simpler if I just opened a portal to your rooms so you could choose your clothes yourselves, as well as use your own bathroom.” He lifts a browbone. “Would that work for you, Cross?”

Nodding, Cross looks no less appreciative. “Yes, that should be fine for both of us.”

Nightmare grunts. “Very well then. I’ll do that for you both shortly.” He glances back over at Dream, expression blank even as a light blush just barely remains on his cheeks. It’s simultaneous with the sway of affection Dream senses from him, and for once, it’s directed at someone other than Dream.

His brother definitely knows that he’s caught on to his emotions, and the subtle violet glows just a shade brighter. Nightmare doesn’t look away from him, but his words are directed at Cross all the same.

“Did you have a pleasant rest?”

Dream beams at Nightmare and looks back at Cross, watching him blink with confusion, caught off-guard by the question.

“Y… yes. I slept really well. Better than I have in a while. Thanks.”

It’s stilted and awkward, but Dream loves the tentative harmony between them all the same. It makes his soul swell and reminds him of when he and Nightmare were finding their way into a relationship one step at a time, cautiously gentle and sweet but longing for it all the same. To see that replicated between his brother and Cross, especially after their former animosity, is such a relief.

Dream tries to curb his happiness from causing another burst of positivity that would make Nightmare flinch and possibly retreat once more. He’s not able to stop his slight shifting with excited energy though, and Nightmare’s mouth quirks up just a bit.

He seems to recollect himself, giving Cross a look that could almost pass for tender as he says, “Good.”

The purple color on Cross’s face deepens, and he seems to hunch inward even as his own feelings mirror Nightmare’s. It’s at that moment that Dream notices the fabric draped over his shoulders.

“Is that the comforter?”

“Hmm? Oh!” Cross looks down at the thick blanket wrapped around him like he forgot it was there. “Yeah, it is. It was cold, and I didn’t want to put back on my dirty clothes, but I figured since this is probably going to need to be washed anyways, you wouldn’t mind…”

“That’s fine. Though isn’t Killer still trying to sleep? He might be cold without a blanket.”

It’s like a wall comes down over Cross’s face. He turns stony, the softness from earlier disappearing, though the unexpected swirl of negativity isn’t channeled at Dream or Nightmare. 

In an unexpectedly bitter tone, Cross says, “He should be getting up soon anyways. He won’t mind.”

Dream finds that highly unlikely given that no one he’s ever met has liked such a rude awakening, but then again, he doesn’t quite know their relationship. Maybe this is the standard for them? Still, it seems so… harsh. Unusual for someone like Cross who is often so warm towards Dream.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye to see if Nightmare is noting the oddity of the situation as well, he’s both relieved and concerned when his brother looks no more at ease, brow furrowed as he assesses Cross.

Seeming to catch on to their disquietude, Cross shifts in place, looking uncomfortable and nervous the longer he stands there. Maybe he thinks that he’s done something wrong, and though Dream wants to sort out Cross’s unwarranted tide of frustration towards Killer, he also knows that it’s a conversation that needs to wait. At least until they’re all together and a bit more coherent. Perhaps some breakfast first will do them all some good.

As he so often does, Nightmare proves to be on the same page as him. He calmly remarks, “Then, I suppose once Dream and I are done with our bath, and while you and Killer are occupied with your showers, I’ll work on cooking breakfast for everyone.”

It’s a solid plan—a purposeful distraction for Cross to erase his worry. Like clockwork, the tension eases from his shoulders and face. 

“Yeah, ok. That sounds good.” He gives a final nod and looks between them as if waiting to be dismissed.

Helpfully, Nightmare says, “Please close the door behind you, Cross.”

“We’ll see you and Killer in the dining hall in a bit,” Dream adds, making sure Cross knows his presence is still wanted there. Cross’s answering smile is a bit weak, but Dream can read his appreciation all the same. He shuffles out the door, heavy comforter dragging behind him like a train.

The second the door clicks shut, Nightmare doesn’t hold back on voicing his opinion. “Well, that was fucking weird.”

His tone is kept low likely so that no one else will hear them. 

Frowning, Dream stares at the closed door and then pointedly at his brother. An understanding passes between them. Something’s up, and whatever it is centers around Cross and Killer.

“Do you think I should say something...?”

There’s a pang of guilt as Dream considers his part in all this. They really should’ve talked about things and straightened them all out before falling into bed together. While he doesn’t regret the fun they all had, he’s not proud of the way they handled the situation.

“No.” Nightmare shakes his head. “Leave them be. They’ll sort it out between themselves. Either of our involvement might make the situation grow out of hand—at least if we did something immediately. We should give it time.”

Dream nods, lowering himself so he can rest his head on Nightmare’s chest. He sighs, the post-climax heaviness over his limbs making him want to lay there forever. A comfortable silence descends over them, Nightmare lightly stroking the back of his ribs with swirling patterns.

“Water’s starting to cool,” his brother murmurs, “We should get out.”

Immediately Dream’s head shoots up. “You didn’t come yet!”

“Now that Cross is awake, I think our time is up.” At the pout on Dream’s face, Nightmare sighs, “It’s fine, Dream. I don’t mind. I’ll take care of myself later.”

“Let me help, Night. I feel like everyone’s been focusing on me and I haven’t gotten to reciprocate.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Brother, please?”

With a huff and the return of a blush, Nightmare nods and accepts his proposal. Beaming, Dream readjusts his position on Nightmare’s lap, moving so that his legs fall on either side of his brother’s. Then, he coaxes Nightmare’s femurs open, trailing his fingers along the insides of them as he leans in to nip along his brother’s clavicle.

Nightmare’s hands on his back twitch, his fingers digging in the closer Dream’s phalanges get to the lips of his pussy. Dream is close enough to hear Nightmare’s small gasp as he brushes over the sensitive magic. After dragging this out for so long now, it’s clear that his brother is riled up right to the edge. He grins, pressing a heated kiss to Nightmare’s mouth and drinking in the surprised moan as he wastes no time pushing three fingers into him.

As he pumps his phalanges, he circles his thumb around Nightmare’s clit, teasing and toying with it. In short order he can feel his brother start to clench around him, body going tight and Nightmare’s grip on Dream’s scapulae growing desperate. The sounds his brother makes are lost against Dream’s tongue, swallowed down as he tastes every inch of him.

He breaks the kiss with a pant. “Close?”

Nightmare’s head falls carefully back against the ledge of the tub, his socket squeezing shut.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and raspy.

Bolstered, Dream rubs his phalanges against the rough spot along the upper inside of Nightmare’s walls. His brother jolts in his grasp, femurs turning inwards. With Nightmare so close, there’s no reason to tease any longer, the near needy expression on his brother’s face urging him forward. Dream applies direct stimulation to his clit, stroking it firmly and relishing the way Nightmare shudders beneath him.

He hardly manages to circle it once when the bathroom door bursts open, the wood clattering in its frame with the force of it.

“Killer—!” He hears Cross’ voice call out.

Startled, Dream presses closer to Nightmare, his brother doing much the same. He can feel Nightmare’s soul pound in sync with his, surprised as Killer frowns into the room.

It’s curious, actually.

Dream doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ Killer frown before.

It’s then that the cloud of negativity pouring off of the blank-eyed skeleton really hits Dream, choking him for an instant in a flood of anger and hurt. He winces at the feeling, his eyelights darting to Killer’s soul and feeling a twist in his false gut at the hazy circular shape he sees hanging there. A quick glance in Nightmare’s direction shows that his brother has made note of the same things, focused intently on Killer’s appearance and the veritable storm of emotions surrounding him.

The moment passes, and Killer finally seems to notice that they’re in the room at all.

As soon as he does, a dam closes down on his emotions, hiding them out of view. Dream reels from the sudden stretch of nothing that escapes from the skeleton, whiplashed, watching in worry even as Killer’s rictus grin returns to his face.

“Heh, whoops,” Killer chuckles, devoid of any actual humour, “You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about knocking.”

Neither Nightmare nor Dream laugh, staring at him with mounting concern. Killer’s easy grin begins to slip as the joke falls flat. He glances to the side, leaning his hip against the doorway as his arms cross over his bare chest. In fact, Dream realizes that Killer is completely unclothed, save for the fake aloofness he wears like a mask.

It doesn’t appear to bother him, just like his swirling soul and lack of emotions seem to suggest.

Dream doesn’t know Killer as well as Nightmare or even Cross. But he doesn’t need more than his own intuition to immediately sense the significant _wrongness_ of the situation.

“Killer,” Nightmare begins, only to be cut off by the skeleton in question.

“Yeah, I know. This ain’t ol’ criss-crossy’s room, and I should knock like you always tell me to.”

“And we both know it’s unlikely to happen, given that I’ve had to remind you for the past five years.”

Killer’s grin hikes up just a little higher, a tinge of fondness breaking through the curtain over his emotions. It’s a distraction, and though Nightmare looks like he wants to address the issue at hand, they also just agreed to let Cross and Killer talk out their problems—whatever they may be—first. It doesn’t make feigning ignorance any easier.

Dream pipes up, “Did you need something, Killer?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Cross gave me the lowdown about the showers. ‘Sides, looks like you two are plenty busy already, little light.”

Killer gives a small nod towards them, and Dream’s abruptly made aware of the fingers still deep inside his brother. His cheeks go warm, though the flush is not nearly as severe as the one that blooms on Nightmare’s face and travels down his neck as he seems to shrink down into the tub as much as he can in the minimal space. With an apologetic wince, Dream gently pulls free his fingers, slick stringing between them before washing away in the dirtying bathwater. He discreetly wipes his hand against his leg.

“O-oh, it’s not— we’re just—”

Killer snickers. “Having a little fun in the tub. Sounds like a good time, so I’ll just let you get back to it.”

He shoves off from the doorframe, flimsy grin still in place even as more of the black fluid flows from his sockets and skims down his neck. It’s incredibly jarring, alongside the wavering soul that was in the shape of a heart only a short while ago.

Finding his voice once more, Nightmare calls out to him, “Killer.”

It’s not a command, but Killer responds to it all the same, freezing in place. He looks back at Nightmare, face blank despite the crooked smile he gives him. “Yeah?”

Nightmare’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He looks just as frustrated as his negative feelings suggest, uncertainty and concern brimming within him. Dream places a hand on his leg, something to ground him and offer silent comfort. Nightmare glances back out of the corner of his eye before sighing.

“...Never mind. Dream and I will wrap up in here shortly so that you and Cross may freshen up.”

A flicker of something passes through Killer, reminiscent of hurt or resignation. It serves to do nothing but puzzle Dream further. As expected, Killer makes no mention of it.

“Sounds peachy,” he says and then with a falsely cheerful wave, he slams the bathroom door shut again. Silence reigns on the other side, and Dream can’t help but focus on the spike in negativity he faintly catches from Cross.

Could this potentially be his fault? He can’t make sense of the tension between them, having thought they’d settled everything last night. Though the clarification over what happened with himself and Killer _had_ been rather glossed over. Maybe there’s some lingering bitterness that’s since carried on into this morning. Again he admonishes himself for launching straight into physical pleasure without settling the situation and ensuring that everyone was on the same page.

Dream makes a mental note to talk with Cross about this later in private. For now, though, Nightmare deserves his full attention. If he still wants it, that is. Considering everything that just happened… 

He looks down and isn’t all too surprised that his brother has dismissed his magic. Still, he feels obligated to ask.

“Did you still want me to…?”

His brother shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I believe the mood has since passed for the both of us.” At Dream’s looming guilt, Nightmare adds, “Don’t look so glum. If it really bothers you, we can continue this later. Preferably when there’s a bit more… order around here.”

Dream sighs, “You’re right, we’ll have plenty of time later. Still, I’m sorry.”

“No apologies necessary.” Two of Nightmare’s tentacles wrap themselves lazily around his hips and spine, stroking up and down reassuringly. His brother rests his head against Dream’s chest, prompting Dream to run his phalanges gently down the back curve of his skull. Nightmare hums with pleasure before peeking up at him from below, soft smile on his face. “Now, let’s empty out the water and rinse off.”

His soul squeezes with fond affection. Nightmare looks so relaxed, so at peace… It’s more than Dream could’ve hoped for even just a year ago.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, finally rewetting the sponges.

In short order, he and Nightmare finish washing up, paying particular attention to their pelvises, before draining the tub. Then, with fresh water they rinse themselves over, and Nightmare drifts a tentacle out to the side to grab two plush towels hung on the hooks by the tub. He drapes the soft, yellow one over Dream’s shoulders and takes the lavender one for himself. They dry down quickly and Dream keeps the towel around himself like a cape while Nightmare fixes his around his hips.

They step out of the tub together, hand in hand. With a cursory lookover to make sure everything is in order, they nod at each other and face the bathroom door.

“Ready?” Nightmare asks.

Dream thinks about all the conversations they’ll need to have—all the misconceptions they’ll have to clear up.

If they’re serious about pursuing a relationship, this is going to take a lot of work.

He takes a deep breath, eyelights gleaming with resolution. “Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HELLO AND WELCOME TO THE NEXT INSTALLMENT IN ATOS!**
> 
> It's been a minute since the last update, but we hope you'll enjoy what we have to offer this go-round. Sorry for the long break between this fic and the last one, but Type and I have been keeping busy by working on the **[ATOS blog](https://atosofficial.tumblr.com/)** in the interim! Hopefully that's been enough to tide you over while we've spent the past few months getting more invested in and excited for this series as we plot it out.
> 
> We have so much in store for these boys, and we can't wait to share this story with you. Thanks for reading! 💖


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🔪⚔
> 
> Please mind the new tags~

It’s freezing.

There’s whispers around him, a cacophony all at once. Familiar voices, equal measures mournful and accusing. They touch him, unseen, but their palms are cold and clammy against his bare bones. It’s dark, darker, yet darker. No light cast to create the silhouettes that rise up in front of him, but a presence all the same. Through it all, the icy feeling persists, numb and pulsing with every beat of his mangled soul.

There’s a subconscious part of him that knows he’s asleep, but he can’t fully grasp the concept. Instead, Killer drifts in and out of dreamlessness, an endless sea of nothing and no one despite the hushed recriminations that linger as he floats along, restless. At times it seems like he’s sinking, pulled into some memory, some half-formed recollection, but the hold breaks before it can ever truly grasp him.

He’s relieved.

He’s sickened.

He doesn’t know how to feel really. The cold endures, a sheen of frost over his feelings till he’s trapped, helpless as it builds into a thick layer of ice overtop him, dooming him to drown in the ceaseless waves of his frigid thoughts. Poetic. Tragic. Hilarious.

Killer laughs, frozen to the core as water rushes into the lungs he does not have, choking him breathless. His sockets are dark, inky black oozing from them, mixing into the pool of everything he can’t remember how to feel, tainting it with a waterlogged rot that can’t be removed. His body shakes and convulses with mirth, with desperation.

And still the voices denounce him. Waiting, just beyond the ice, the faces invisible but their reproach sharp even through the depth of murky darkness between them. It’s so, so, cold.

The bitter numbness wraps around him like a funeral shroud, encompassing him. He doesn’t struggle. Instead, he watches as it folds in around his soul, cutting off its light from view, the flaring red extinguished in a blessed thrum of blackness. He’s not scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

He doesn’t dream, but his nightmares are worse.

This is something in between.

A door clicks shut, and Killer stirs awake, sockets fluttering partway open. He’s freezing—both in body and something far deeper. He doesn’t need to look down at his soul to know the state of it, but he does so by habit regardless. As expected, he’s greeted by the familiar ringed shape, hovering unsteadily several inches past his chest.

He’s… unhappy about that, he thinks. It’s hard to tell when last night still feels so vivid in his memory, his emotions full and brimming from him with every word he spoke. In comparison to that, everything now feels muted. Muffled, like whispering through a wall.

“S’cold,” Killer murmurs aloud.

There’s a pause before a voice answers him. Cross. “You’re awake.”

His immediate reaction is to flinch, a movement that Killer just barely restrains. The chill within him shifts into a frigidness that matches the extremity of the depths of an iceberg. Quietly, Killer takes a slow breath, trying to ignore the numbness pouring over him. The longer he ignores the problem in the room, the more likely said problem will attempt to ‘talk things out’.

It’s best if he chooses to nip this in the bud. With feigned ease, he rolls onto his back and then sits up, making sure to keep his posture languid and non-threatening. Cross has always responded poorly to anything that looks like a challenge. Though he’d be an idiot to ever let his guard down around Killer.

At least, that’s what Killer had done with Cross. Trusting him while anticipating that trust in return. And look where it got him.

He thinks he feels a flash of anger, but it’s just as quickly muted. Instead of chasing the dull sensation to see where that anger goes, he leans back on his hands and lifts a brow at the other monster standing several feet away.

Huddled in the comforter that envelopes him like a cloud, Cross stares back hard. His fingers make small creases in the fabric as he tightens his grip around the thick material, almost like he expects Killer to try to snatch it back. Killer has a half a mind to do just that, if only because Cross anticipates it. His eyelights trail down Killer’s body, and while his own nudity doesn’t bother him, Killer doesn’t very much appreciate the way Cross’ gaze settles on his swirling soul.

It pushes him into action, sitting straighter and dangling his legs over the side of the bed. He faces Cross directly, and it’s enough to jerk the other’s eyelights back up to his face, an embarrassed purple flush brushing over his cheeks. It’d be charming on any other day. Right now, Killer sees it and feels nothing.

He’s always been good at pretending though.

“Comfortable?” He asks, tilting his head to rest against his shoulder. The word is said in a glib tone, and as predicted, Cross flushes further, shame forcing him to redirect his glower to the wall.

“Yeah, I am,” he retorts, but the intended sting in his voice falls short thanks to the traces of regret in his expression. Killer responds with an indifferent hum.

“Then that makes two of us,” he says, stretching his arms and curling his fingers until he hears a crack. When Cross looks back at him, frowning, Killer makes sure to slip on a relaxed smile to fit his words. He knows exactly what it takes to make Cross tick, and when the other’s frown deepens, Killer emits a pleased sigh. There’s a sudden, small burst of something, a feeling that might be ugly satisfaction, but it recedes from his soul before he can truly taste it.

Doesn’t matter. He gets the reaction he wants all the same.

Cross’ confusion turns into stiff anger, and he takes a quick step towards him like he plans to do something. He stops just as fast, but his frustration is delicious, and Killer imagines that seeing it is what he wants.

Surprisingly, though, Cross doesn’t growl out heated words that bounce right off of Killer. His mouth opens, silence following afterwards for a bemused moment as he clearly struggles to sort out his emotions.

Ha. Must be nice to have such a dilemma.

Unable to resist prodding the beast, Killer adopts a mellow look, blinking slowly.

“What?”

Cross narrows his sockets.

“You’re shaking,” he says, and in an instant Killer knows he’s not referring to the cold. But there’s no way he’s letting Cross continue that line of thought. His soul is no one’s business but his own.

His voice spills out in an icy tone, matching the feeling trapped in his bones. “What did you expect? You took my only blanket.”

Sure enough, that’s all it takes to distract Cross from whatever momentary pity he’s feeling, assuming that’s what it even was. His sockets narrow, his eyelights blazing with anger, which Killer is more than fine with. He’d much rather deal with that than the awkward hesitance.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cross mocks, thin, “Did you want this?”

He gestures at the comforter, glancing down briefly like he’d only just noticed it. “Huh, I guess you must feel really bad since, you know, I didn’t even _ask_ before I took it.”

Killer laughs, dry and humourless. “Really? Are we seriously going to argue around the problem like fucking children? If you’ve got an issue with me, spit it out, Cross.”

He feels nauseous. A pure physical sensation that claws up his throat and constricts him. It’s vaguely familiar, an artifact from the last time his soul flip-flopped around. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in his stable state, and it’s obvious his body clings to it, which makes each return to his hazy, circular soul more difficult than the last.

Withdrawal is a bitch.

He has no idea how long it’ll take before he can ground himself again. How many minutes or hours or days will pass before he can pick out his emotions through the fog, grip onto them and remember how to act like everything’s fine. He hates the waiting. Hates how long everything draws out until he feels ‘normal’ again. Patience has never been his soul trait, even pre-fucking it up.

“You know exactly what the issue is.”

Cross is stony and distant. He doesn’t look half as intimidating as he probably thinks he does. It’s hard for Killer to take him seriously on a good day, but now? When he’s all swaddled up and poofy like a fledgling bird? There’s just no way.

“Didn’t we deal with this last night?”

“No,” Cross bites out, “We handwaved your bullshit away. You made no explanations for yourself, but more importantly, you didn’t give any indication you wouldn’t do it again.”

A feeling bubbles up and pops within him. Is it anger? Indignation? He’s not quick enough to catch it, still slowly waking up and coming to terms with that empty feeling in his chest, but he knows enough to understand that it’s nothing good.

Killer sighs, tired with the conversation already, “Where’s the boss?”

Cross blinks, startled by the sudden shift in topic.

“Huh?”

“The boss,” Killer repeats, slow and dragged out, like he thinks Cross is stupid. It’s worth the irritated spark in the other skeleton’s eye. “Where’d he go?”

There’s a moment of careful deliberation on Cross’ part; Killer can read it in the way his jaw goes tight. A very real possibility exists that Cross won’t answer his question at all, instead launching right back into his diatribe. But a flicker of resignation in his expression and the minute slouch in his shoulders tells Killer what he needs to know. It’s clear that Nightmare gave him instructions to pass on, and Cross is nothing if not a perfect little soldier.

“He’s washing up.” Cross tilts his head back at the door to the bathroom. As he does, his face flushes slightly. “With Dream. He says that once they’re both done, he’ll ‘port us back to our rooms. That way we don’t risk seeing Dust or Horror in the halls as we head back.”

Killer nods, then slowly gets up to his feet. Although they’re within arms reach, he doesn’t yet feel any particular need to put on his dirtied clothes from the night before. He stretches out as Cross watches him. Killer’s been undressed in front of Cross plenty of times at this point, whether because they were fucking or because of an injury that needed to be dealt with quick in the heat of battle. And besides, modesty was never an issue for him regardless.

“You can’t avoid the consequences forever,” Cross whispers, low but firm.

“What’s your problem, Cross? Tell me,” Killer drawls, another rush of… something agitated pulsing through his soul. He’s slowly remembering himself, finding the holds to keep himself steady. If he can hang onto the dredges of one emotion, make he can wring it out and make it last till the next time he feels something. “Because it seems to me that you’re the only one hung up on this. _Dream_ certainly doesn’t care.”

Mentioning his little boyfriend by name brings an instant edge to Cross’ words. “I won’t let you take advantage of his kindness.”

Killer’s hand twitches, itching for his knife.

What exactly does Cross expect him to say here? Does he want Killer to promise he’ll always have the state of his soul under control? After two years working side-by-side, he should know that’s impossible.

“I don’t think I’m taking advantage in any sense of the word. Dream’s been pretty damn enthusiastic.”

He’s treading dangerous waters, he knows. He can’t help himself though, not when the restless pounding of his soul demands that he feel something, anything. Now that he’s fully awake and evening out back into his muted, emotionless state, the craving to feel something new returns, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s been able to turn the temptation down.

So, Killer cocks his head. He grins at Cross, wide and condescending.

“Or are you just bitter because I fucked your crush before you did?”

He expects the punch, but he’s not quick enough to dodge it. Instead, when Cross charges at him, Killer catches the punch with one hand and uses the other to throw one of his own. Underhanded, right into the middle of Cross’ spine. He relishes the sound of Cross grunting in pain, though clearly the blanket cushioned the blow. It’s half falling off of him now, exposing the arm he swung with, as well as a good chunk of his ribs. Killer smiles wider, partly because it’s a hilarious look on him and partly because he knows it’ll infuriate Cross further.

“Asshole,” Cross grits, glaring.

“Are you gonna attack me again, or can I let you go?” Killer smiles at him, even as he feels a thick sluice of black liquid pouring from his sockets. After all this time, he’s yet to get used to the sensation, though he’s mastered schooling his face to be blank. “Be a bud and give me a heads up, yeah? That way I can grab my knife. It’ll give us a chance to make things _really_ interesting.”

To his absolute surprise, Cross laughs.

It’s enough to make Killer’s smile slip, his words dying out as Cross’ body shakes with it, bitter and angry.

“You don’t care. _Of course_ , you don’t,” he says, and somehow his words make Killer’s arms go slack. Cross backs up with ease, looking down at him with a resentful stare. “I don’t know why I expected you to feel even a shred of remorse. I should have known better. You can’t feel anything.”

Something in Killer snaps at that.

His soul is cold and leaden, a shaky pulse within that threatens to dismantle it a stage further. Because… that’s the crux of the issue isn’t it? Killer _can’t_ feel anything. Not properly anyways. He’s not void of emotions entirely, not like Ink without his paints, but he’s a stranger to his own feelings at the best of times. He’s making do with what he has, taking the small impressions he gets and acting to the best of his ability.

But despite all that, despite the difficulty in managing his soul, he’s always had his limits. He’s never crossed them. And last night, the only time he ever came even remotely close to toeing that line, his soul had been filled with honest regret. A potent, sharp feeling that still tastes like vomit in the back of his throat.

He’d apologised. He’d been sincere.

He’d ignored how Cross and Nightmare’s reactions twisted him up inside because _feeling_ , as it turned out, wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be.

“You want to know how I _feel_ , Cross?” He seethes, words oozing with vitriol.

His soul stutters, jagged spirals darting out of it before rejoining the solid circle again. Cross’ eyelights dart down to it before slipping back up and it only makes another bright flare of anger rise up from him before it inevitably snuffs out. Killer grabs hold of it though. Lets himself linger on that split second of fury and hurt. Lets it guide his voice as he continues to speak.

“I _feel_ like I’ve been dragged through hell this morning. I _feel_ like this is the crash after a high, like all my emotions rose to the occasion last night and then conveniently decided to fuck off when I woke.”

Killer keeps his voice low. He’s far beyond a whisper, but he’s not about to yell and alert the twins to what’s happening. Even if all they need to do is focus on Cross’ emotions to suss out that something’s up. This is between him and Cross, and he doesn’t want anyone else part of it.

The monster in question still has that self-righteous frown on his face, taking two steps back for every one that Killer takes forward.

“I feel shaky and out of it, wobbly like I might collapse.” Cross’ expression wavers, but Killer presses on before the big idiot can pretend to care. In doing so, he rushes on with his words, being a bit more honest than he intends. “I feel like it’s taking me longer than usual to come to terms with how numb everything around me is.”

Once he says it, he can’t stop himself, the rage he held onto from earlier gripped tight and squeezed for all it’s worth.

“I feel pretty shitty, actually, because there’s a lot of things we didn’t sort through last night. Like how my boss thought the worst of me. Like how _you_ , someone I’ve known for years and slept with for almost _half_ that time, didn’t even hesitate before deciding I’d be better off dusted.”

The conflict on Cross’ face is a victory, but one Killer can’t enjoy. His soul is beginning to spiral rapidly, shaking apart at the seams. There’s a surge of strong sentiment, of hurt, that washes over him, lingering as another spurt of inky black spills from his sockets. This time, when he steps forwards, Cross doesn’t move, sockets wide with the same sort of remorse he accused Killer of being unable to muster up himself.

“So I’m sorry,” Killer spits, exhausting himself of his ill-kept rage, “if maybe I don’t _feel_ too great about you thinking I’m capable of being a rapist.”

Silence follows his words, abrupt and ugly.

His soul is starting to hurt, a mess of pain concentrated in the middle of his chest as it swirls faster and faster. He needs to calm down. He needs to be away from Cross before he does something he regrets. Before his soul falls apart.

Cross takes a step towards him, arm slowly reaching out in his direction. “Killer…”

He has to get out of here.

“I need some air,” he rasps, swerving out of Cross’ reach and grabbing onto the door handle to his right.

“Killer—!”

The door makes a satisfying bang against the wall as Killer wrenches it open. He takes a single step into the room, uncaring of where he goes as long as he puts distance between himself and Cross. More emotions are starting to flood in, but they vanish almost as quickly, like an ocean tide, and it leaves a sickly sensation in Killer’s gut, adding onto the ache in his soul.

How dare he. How _dare_ he—

Killer tries to stop the thoughts before they can take root. Embracing the numbness is far better than letting his anger take control and leave him without remorse. He knows it’s more than anger trying to claw its way out of the waves of nothingness, but Killer _can’t_ let those feelings into the light. There’s nothing waiting for him there but more sharp, poisonous pain.

For a moment, he focuses only on breathing, and the razor-like edges of his soul begin to haze over, calming just a bit. Killer clenches his hands at his sides and looks up.

Frozen in place, Nightmare and Dream gape back at him, just as surprised.

Right before the instinctive jolt of panic can form, Killer forcefully shoves all of his emotional stress down, down, down, locking it tight behind an iron gate in his mind, just like how the boss taught him to forever ago. It leaves him in an utterly blank state of feeling. Everything about him and this situation turns meaningless, and Killer does what he’s always done best since arriving at the castle.

He dons a ludic grin and plays his part as the untouchable, easy-going servant.

“Heh, whoops.” His voice sounds stale even to his own ears, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does as long as he can fool everyone, including himself. “You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about knocking.”

Expecting a laugh from his audience is pushing it, but Killer had thought it would at least garner a smirk from the boss. It would mean he’s selling his act well. Nightmare’s mouth doesn’t so much as quirk, face blank like he’s trying to rival Killer’s own casual air. Desperate, Killer switches his attention to Dream and receives even less of an enthusiastic response. Dream frowns sadly at him, expression fallen like he’s just suffered a loss. It takes less than a second to click—Dream’s been working so hard to keep Killer from slipping into that seamless stream of self-deprecating jokes. And here his efforts are, wasting away.

Killer drops his gaze, slouching against the doorframe and folding his arms over his chest, even though he knows his soul will hover over them anyways. Looks like he failed in all departments here. Now, Dream’s disappointed in him too. Killer’s just knocking the ball out of the park on all his swings, seeing if he can get every single person upset at him in some way.

In other words, same business as usual then.

“Killer—”

“Yeah I know.” As soon as the boss opens his mouth, Killer lets his own run so that he can hurriedly explain himself. It’s almost like some last ditch effort to prove he’s not completely worthless. Fat chance in fooling them at this point. He continues anyway. “This ain’t ol’ Criss-Crossy’s room, and I should knock like you always tell me to.”

Nightmare sighs, pinning him with that same deadpan stare that Killer’s grown to appreciate over time. In a low voice, he grumbles, “And we both know it’s unlikely to happen, given that I’ve had to remind you for the past five years.”

Cutting through the curtain of numbness, Nightmare’s words instill a tiny burst of something warm within Killer, gentle enough to lift his mood just a bit and make his smile a touch genuine. He knows exactly what his boss is trying to do, craftily analyzing him and attempting to soften Killer up a little so that he can break through his guard and ask more invasive questions. It’s underhanded and an overall dirty tactic.

Killer admires that.

Before the line of questioning can be pursued, though, Dream taps into the conversation. His smile is no less real despite the concern overshadowing it. In a mellow voice, he asks, “Did you need something, Killer?”

Asking like he truly cares. And, well, even with as little as Killer does know about Dream, he has no doubts that the monster isn’t just asking to be nice. For some odd reason, Nightmare’s brother has come to actually like and worry about him too.

It’s weird to think about, so Killer doesn’t.

“Nah,” he answers, “Don’t worry about it. Cross gave me the lowdown about the showers.”

Killer does his best to ignore the uncomfortable pulse his soul gives at the thought of Cross. It shudders just for a moment before settling once more, still swirling but contained. Looking for a quick distraction, Killer finds one all too easily as he notes the suspicious position of Dream’s arm in between himself and Nightmare, both of them still flushed in the face and huddled close.

Perfect.

“‘Sides,” Killer drawls, nodding at them, “looks like you two are plenty busy already, little light.”

As expected, that diverts both their attention away from him and back to their current, undressed states. What’s unforeseen, however, is how much of an effect it has on Nightmare. Killer watches as Nightmare’s deep purple magic ignites in a blush that goes all the way down, even as he slinks in the tub, trying to hide himself from view. He’s very clearly embarrassed. It’s adorable.

Killer wishes he was emotionally present enough so that he could fully appreciate the sight.

Dream stutters through an excuse, abruptly moving his hands away. “O-oh, it’s not— we’re just—”

“Having a little fun in the tub,” Killer laughs, and it’s very nearly natural, “Sounds like a good time, so I’ll just let you get back to it.”

It’s time to take his leave. He’s in no hurry to get back to Cross, but there’s no staying here. Especially not with two beings who could crack him open and read his non-emotions perfectly.

The upside at least is that his soul is no longer in any danger of spiraling further. He’s wide awake now, more in control than he was while still grounding himself earlier. So long as he remains carefully neutral when he returns back to the room, things should be fine.

… and if not, he could just leave.

So what if Dust and Horror find out he’s been fucking around with the boss and his brother? It’s not like they’ve ever expected much from Killer to begin with. It might give Cross away, but what does that matter to him at this point? If they’re already burning bridges, what’s one more match to the fire?

“Killer.”

It’s impossible not to stop.

Nightmare calls, and he follows. Ever faithful to his king—that’s him.

“Yeah?”

When he looks at Nightmare, head-on instead of with another careless glance, he swears there seems to be something important his boss wants to say. Nightmare’s face is scrunched up in that way it gets when he’s forced to do something he finds distasteful but necessary. It’s cute and, for a wild, delirious moment, Killer actually imagines Nightmare apologising to him.

“...Never mind. Dream and I will wrap up in here shortly so that you and Cross may freshen up.”

Of course.

Really, he didn’t expect much. He’s always known that he comes second to Dream—even back when the brothers were still seriously fighting one another. In fact, a part of him has already brushed aside Nightmare’s threats of harm the night before. He’d wanted Killer dead, sure, but Dream was his only family. It’s fucked up probably, but Killer finds it hard to hold a grudge against Nightmare when Dream has been part of his life for literal centuries. That kind of relationship is hard to beat.

Cross, however, doesn’t have that excuse.

“Sounds peachy.” He waves and quickly shuffles out of the bathroom before either of them can say anything else.

Which leaves him right back where he started.

Cross is still dutifully standing where Killer left him. He’s since pulled the blanket back up, but there’s otherwise no change. Same stiff posture, same angry frown, same stupid, conflicted look in his eyes.

“In case you’re wondering, no, they’re not done using the bathroom yet.”

The skeleton ignores him entirely. “We need to talk.”

“We’re already doing that, Cross. That’s what it’s called when your mouth moves and words come out of it.” He’ll give it a minute. He’ll give this whole thing one last try. But the second it starts fucking with his soul again, he’s out of here. Secrecy be damned. “Anyways, I don’t really think there’s much left to say at this point.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not done talking.” Cross scowls at him. Killer laughs plainly, a dull sound that leaks his exhaustion.

“You never are. Always have to get the last word in, don’tcha?” He rolls his shoulders, staring from partially lidded sockets at Cross who’s gritting his teeth like he’s only just resisting another retort. Killer releases a loud sigh and spreads his hands.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

Cross continues to stare at him for a long second before mimicking his sigh, his dry swallow loud enough to hear. He takes a single step towards Killer, glances down lightning fast at his soul and then back up, keeping his distance. Smart.

“I just—” He pauses for a moment, glare stabbing into Killer, though Killer gets the impression that it might not entirely be rage this time. Cross appears ungrounded too, a confusing mix of emotions melted down into a pungent frustration that is directed at Killer in turn. Killer doesn’t really care one way or another because in the end it’ll always boil down to it being his fault. Cross has a lovely way of always figuring out how to shift the blame onto him. It might be a result of all the times Killer offered to take the fall for him, like when a mission went wrong or they failed to do as the boss asked.

Accepting the blame has just always felt... natural. As if he couldn’t help but take Cross under his wing and protect him, even if he surely didn’t need it. Nightmare most certainly saw through Killer’s smooth lies each time and yet never said a word to either of them about it, his teal eyelight piercing into Killer first and then slowly tracking over Cross’s rigid form.

That’s what he gets for ever choosing to care. Cross has obviously grown used to him being at fault and taking the blame without hesitation. Well, now that’s about to change. Killer’s not going to let anyone roll over him so easily again.

After seeing his thin hope dashed with Nightmare in the bathroom, he’s hard pressed to think Cross will be any different. Still, the tiny fragment of him that yearns for this to be fixed, that craves a mend between him and Cross, flickers to life like a slow, encouraging puff of air on a dying flame.

“I...” Cross says again. He pulls the blanket taut around him in frustration. “Look. We both said and did some things we regret. I know you would never— at least, I think I know you wouldn’t—”

“You _think_ I wouldn’t?” Killer interjects, soul flickering like static as disbelief spears through it. He can feel his grin stretching tight, a layer of anger adding to the ebbing emotions trying to puncture the blankness. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cut off what I ‘think’ might be your attempt at a half-assed apology, but you’re not fucking with me again, right? You’re not actually being serious?”

Cross opens his mouth, the unintelligible beginnings of a sentence tumbling out, nothing of real substance. Killer waits, and when Cross is unable to find an appropriate denial, his eyelights flick down to the floor like he’ll find the answer etched into the polished marble. His silence is more than enough of an answer though.

“You _are_.” Killer leans back as if he needs more space to take in the incredible audacity before him. He blinks. Trying to digest the grim truth Cross has unwillingly given him. That Cross really doesn’t know him at all, or has at least refused to believe there’s any good in him.

“Well, I guess I’ve gotta thank you for one thing, Crossy.” Had his soul not been fluctuating, he might have winced at the monotone in his own voice. It plays a deadly tune, one resonating with defeat and heavy exhaustion. Cross must pick up on the sound of its finality as well, head shooting back up as he gapes at him, expression steadily growing alarmed.

Killer smiles bitterly. “If there’s any one thing you’ve always been good at, it’s making sure others know how you feel. ‘S almost liberating in a way, y’know? I’ve never had to guess what you’re thinking, and because of that, you’ve helped me see where we stand now.”

He walks over to his clothes, bending over and collecting them in his arms. His body feels like it’s filled with a frenetic energy, needing to do something as he forces the painful words out of his mouth despite how they choke him down and make him want to swallow them instead.

But he doesn’t have a choice anymore, does he? Cross has already informed him of his opinion about Killer. Killer’s just giving him what he wants now.

He holds the bundle of clothes in his arms and finally meets Cross’ eyes.

“You’ve made it clear how you feel about me. Us. So, thanks for the time we had together. It’ll be one for the books. I’ll be sure to look fondly back on how we ended things.”

Cross has visibly begun to shake in front of him. The rattling of his bones is subtle but unmistakable. And god fucking damn it all, but at the first sight of his sockets beginning to well, Killer feels the knife in his chest twist harder.

He doesn’t care. He _doesn’t_. This is what Cross wants, and since Killer’s always gone out of his way to give in to his needs, he’ll just have to be okay with it too.

“Killer,” Cross says, more of a breath than anything, and Killer turns to the bed so he doesn’t have to watch the pathetic image unfold.

“Killer,” Cross repeats, a bit more solid as desperation slinks into his plea. He takes a step towards him. “That’s not what I— You know I don’t want us to stop…”

“Fucking? You have Dream for that now. And the boss too, looks like. Congrats.”

“...I don’t want us to stop being together,” Cross quietly corrects. As if ‘together’ properly describes what they were doing with each other. As if Killer’s gonna believe that obvious lie. “I’m sorry, alright? Treating you the way I did was wrong of me, but I just was so concerned after hearing about your fantasy of him, and then seeing you two together like that… It just seemed too coincidental, okay? I had to make sure Dream wasn’t actually—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Cross.” Killer looks blankly at the sheets. “I get it. Once a threat, always a threat, right? You can’t afford to trust someone like me.”

“That’s not what I _said_.”

Killer idly fiddles with the fabric balled in his hands. Cross’ protest is flimsy at best. More for appearance’s sake, if anything. “But it is true, isn’t it? We wouldn’t be having a problem otherwise.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and a solemn quiet descends between them.

Killer picks out his shorts from the pile. They’re in need of a wash like the rest of his clothes, but he slips them on regardless. He can feel Cross’ stare on him. He doesn’t look up—can’t risk it. His soul is flaring at random intervals, stable but only barely. He needs to end this.

“You know, the crazy thing is, if you hadn’t said anything when I woke up, I was actually gonna let it go.” Killer eyes his turtleneck and sighs, disregarding it and putting on his jacket instead. He zips it up over his bare ribs. “I figured, whatever, he doesn’t trust me, add another person to the list, right?”

Looking up at Cross is a mistake, he knows it before he does it, but he can’t help himself. ‘Crushed’ is pretty much the only word Killer can use to accurately describe what Cross looks like. It’s ridiculous. It makes him queasy in a way that jostles his soul again before the feeling evaporates.

“But then you just had to go and do your usual preachy bullshit. Like Dream is some damsel in need of a knight.”

Cross’ face is twisted up in a way that he rarely shows Killer head-on. The purple of his magic flares over his cheekbones and nasal aperture, deep and burning. It’s obvious he’s flush with the effort of holding back tears, even if Killer couldn’t visibly see them fill up further in his sockets.

Ugh.

Why’s Cross gotta act like this matters to him at all? They were never in a real relationship in the first place. There weren’t any dates or anniversaries or any of that. Killer is trying to do him a favour by ending this. They were only ever going to drag each other down—they both knew it from the start. Killer’s just surprised Cross made the first move.

He’d always thought it’d be the other way around.

“Guess if we think about it, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Cross’ wordlessness is getting a little unnerving. Killer can see him gritting his teeth like he’s in pain. His shoulders tense like his fists are bunching up the comforter so tight that the bones probably grate against each other. He looks away, picking up his turtleneck again and draping it over his arm.

He shrugs. “‘Cause let’s be real for a second—we only ever started fucking in the first place because neither of us could have what we _really_ wanted. And now that we do… well, there’s no reason to keep pretending, huh?”

He’s said it before—he’s always been good at pretending. Or at least he has been ever since his fucked up soul made him have to act his way through any type of feeling at all.

When it came to him and Cross, Killer pretended so hard he almost believed it was real.

He laughs at himself, and Cross tenses like he’s about to be struck. Killer just smiles at him, wide, and starts making his way towards the door. He thinks about clapping a hand on Cross’ arm as he passes, but somehow the idea of touching him right now makes his soul shake and shiver. So he passes without a word, and Cross doesn’t stop him.

He only stops when he gets to Nightmare’s bedroom door, one hand on the doorknob as he turns to look at Cross over his shoulder.

“I mean it, you know? Congratulations on your new relationships. I’m glad you got what you always dreamt about.” Cross still has his back to Killer, every line of him rife with tension.

It’s better that way. Cross has always been resilient. He just needs a day or two to settle, and then this’ll be nothing to him, like it always should’ve been.

“Now you don’t have to worry about settling for less,” Killer mumbles under his breath as he finally pulls the door open.

He leaves without fanfare--doesn’t even slam the door. He thinks he hears what sounds like the start of his name before it shuts behind him, but he doesn’t wait to find out. There’s no point to it. Their conversation is over, and all that remains is moving past it.

All things said and done, he figures it went about as well as it could have. He said what he needed to, and no one lost any blood or magic or limbs, so that’s a win in his books. He can’t say he feels entirely confident about how it all went down, but that’s nothing new.

Killer doesn’t feel anything anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: This is the first chapter of ATOS without any smut. 😂


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **IT HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN ONE YEAR SINCE WE PUBLISHED ATOS!!** 🎉✨
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who's been reading and has helped us turn our super-niche-rarepair-OT4 that didn't exist outside our daydreams into a ship that we can?? Find fanfic for that we didn't have to write ourselves??? And find beautiful fanart for regularly???? 😭 You guys have humbled us every step of the way, we are forever grateful :")
> 
> ⚔🔪🌙☀️

There’s a ringing in Cross’ head like a bomb’s gone off. It drowns out all other sounds, save for the too-loud pulse of his magic through his body and the restless thumping of his soul. He’s frozen stiff, but his body still shakes, tiny tremors all over. He’s too hot, too cold, burning in this blanket he stole off the bed and icy from the inside-out. He thinks he might be sick.

“Cross?”

For a second, his soul leaps, thinking Killer has returned. But even before he drags his heavy head up, his slow-processing mind registers the tone as Dream’s soft concern. A part of Cross is intensely relieved to see him, eyelights bright and mouth pulled down in obvious worry for him. Another part is struck hard with guilt, Killer’s words weighing heavily on his mind as he considers Dream’s own agency in last night’s activities and how Cross insisted on ‘protecting’ someone who had full control of the situation.

“Cross, are you alright?”

He can’t answer, can’t even shake his head in response to Dream’s patient question. His fists are still gripping tight to the blanket around him, mentally eyeing Dream over even in his distant state. Making sure there are no bruises and scrapes peeking out from under the soft, yellow towel wrapped around him. He can’t even manage to look at Nightmare, though his boss stands just off to Dream’s side. He feels Nightmare’s gaze fixed on him, discerning, before it moves off.

“Where’s Killer?” Nightmare asks.

His tone is firm, a demand more than a request. It unwinds the constriction on Cross’ words, habit loosening his tongue enough to speak under orders.

“He left. Went back to his room, I think.”

“You were both instructed to wait here.”

“Yeah,” Cross chokes out, a lump in his throat he can’t work his voice past, “Don’t think he was too keen on waiting.”

Nightmare says nothing, though Cross knows he’s probably taking a closer read on the situation. Picking their emotions out of the air, or whatever he can that they haven’t stamped down thoroughly anyways. Cross grits his teeth, fresh tears prickling at the edges of his sockets as he relives the last few moments again in his head.

It wasn’t supposed to go like that, it _wasn’t_.

Two years he and Killer have worked side-by-side. Two _years_ they’ve had to find a rhythm with each other. They were partners long before they started anything physical, and in sync for all of that time. They could read each other in gestures alone in the middle of a fight, working in tandem with ease. They argued constantly and fought over the tiniest things but…

They had a system that worked for them. No hard feelings, no matter what happened. So how did it fall apart?

The first touch to his face startles him.

Cross flinches, his body jumpstarting as he notices Dream standing right in front of him, a hand cupping the side of his face. He wipes away Cross’ tears, the gesture filled with so much tenderness that Cross feels gutted by it, his soul twisting. He doesn’t deserve this kindness.

“Cross, what happened?” Dream asks, low, soft, soothing.

“I…” Cross tries. But the words get stuck. Again and again he thinks of Killer’s defeated expression. Of how he kept his face turned away from Cross. Of the clear hurt in his voice and the betrayal radiating off of every part of him.

Dream waits. Ever patient. No pressure to make him continue whatsoever.

He takes a shaky breath. “I fucked up.”

“Fucked up how?” Nightmare approaches them, his question not accusing but authoritative. Probing. At the very least, a small part of Cross is grateful that his boss hasn’t deemed him guilty just yet and wants to hear him out first.

A separate part wishes that they’d afforded Killer the same opportunity.

The final, significantly loudest portion of his conscience wishes he’d reap the blame he deserves. If only he hadn’t let his mouth run or allowed his emotions to get the better of him. He should’ve just stopped and thought for a second.

The sick, clammy feeling washes over again, and stars shine in his vision. Dream’s eyes widen, and he takes a hasty step back seemingly out of fear that Cross may upend last night’s dinner onto the floor. Cross breathes thickly, teeth clenched tight, the acidic burn in his throat flaring up sharp before he swallows it down just as fast.

Given his past experience with the strong, forceful effects of anxiety and shame, Cross finds himself all too familiar with the physical symptoms that can arise from it. He keeps his head bent down, counting forwards and then backwards from ten, trying to focus on anything but the torment in his head and false gut. And incrementally, just like all the other times he’s dealt with this before, the brief swell of nausea churns with his emotions and then reluctantly settles for a moment.

“Cross?” Dream asks, resting a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Do you... Are you going to be sick? Would you like me to help you to the bathroom?”

Even as Cross shakes his head, knowing he doesn’t deserve any kindness for his mistake, Nightmare speaks up.

“It’s not that kind of sickness, Dream.” His footsteps sound again as he closes the distance between them, and Cross squeezes the blanket in his fists so tight, his fingers throb. “He’s overridden with guilt and anxious fear.”

Cross slowly lifts his eyelights from the swirling floor to Nightmare’s narrowed gaze. He regrets looking almost instantly, the need to defer and not meet his boss’ knowing eye rattling his soul and enhancing his nervous state. He only keeps his head up because Nightmare has drilled it into his memory that avoiding eye contact with him is considered not only suspicious but also rather rude. And the boss is nothing if not demanding of respect.

He watches as Nightmare comes to a stop just shy of Dream. “The best course of action here, Cross, is to filter out the unnecessary emotions to help lighten the weight you are now feeling.”

“Don’t.” Cross shakes his head, hating how pathetically weak he sounds. “Don’t do me any favors. I deserve this. After what I said...”

“Admirable as your desire to linger in self-reproach may be, this is more about us being able to get a coherent sentence out of you,” Nightmare says dryly.

Dream steps to the side as his brother takes his place. With the full weight of his boss’ attention on him, Cross dutifully straightens, trying to ignore the way his grief has left him gutted and shaking. In a mirror image of how Dream cupped his face, Nightmare rests a hand on his cheek, less intimate but still gentle in a way that makes new tears fill Cross’ sockets.

He doesn’t deserve kindness. He doesn’t deserve _them_ —

Nightmare’s eyelight flashes, a static burst of primal, age-old power just barely gracing the surface. Cross quakes under the magnitude of it and inhales deeply. On the next breath out, a certain heaviness leaves with it, peeling away layers of hurt and anger and soul-deep pain. It’s like a hand reached inside his chest and scooped out something that was constricting his soul. It yanks the strands clinging to his core and rips them apart, freeing him from the oppressive ache. He feels stripped down and vulnerable.

He feels... not absolved—the guilt is still very much there. But wrapping his mind around it is a bit more feasible without the sudden, violent urge to become ill.

He also knows that Nightmare’s seen and analyzed every single one of those emotions he took from him, and Cross’ cheeks burn hot in shame. With nothing left to hide behind, he attempts to exude a firmness he doesn’t exactly have, donning the persona of the attentive soldier like he’s always done.

Nightmare’s stare penetrates the flimsy mask Cross wears, seeing through his forced blankness and cutting to the core of who he is. Dressed even in just a simple towel, his being radiates with regality and assuredness, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing along Cross’ cheek in a subtle but demanding stroke that holds his focus, and it’s enough of a jolt to remind Cross of the king he’s pledged his service to. Slipping back into the mindset of an obedient guard becomes a fraction more natural, so Cross does his best to cast aside his reservations in place of giving his attention to Nightmare.

His boss clearly notices, and there’s a small, approving glimmer in his eye.

“Now,” he says, releasing Cross’ face and dropping his hands, phalanges folding in a patient, delicate manner in front of him. Cross tries not to miss the warmth of his touch too obviously. “What happened?”

Cross habitually begins to glance away as the remnants of negativity in him spark, but quickly remembers his place and fastens his eyes on his boss once more. He says, “Killer and I had a… disagreement.”

Nightmare snorts, “The two of you have ‘disagreements’ regularly.”

Dream frowns, reaching out to subtly touch Nightmare’s forearm. Cross notices but doesn’t comment on it, can’t with Nightmare’s gaze so fixed on him. He has a job to do, a report to give. If there’s one thing Cross has always been good at, it’s following orders. He just has to wait for Nightmare to give him one.

“No, this was more than that,” Nightmare muses, “I’ve never seen you in such a state following an encounter with Killer. Angry? Certainly. Flustered? On numerous occasions. Some combination of the two of those things more often than not when it really comes down to it—but genuinely _grieving_? This is new.”

“Nightmare,” Dream calls out, and it sounds like a warning.

But the boss is focused, curiosity burning in the single eyelight he assesses Cross with. The flood of overwhelming emotions from earlier has dissipated, though the knot in his chest remains. Maybe if he’s good, Nightmare will drain that away too.

“So tell me, Cross. What was so different this time around?”

“ _Nightmare_ ,” Dream repeats, much firmer than the last time. “Surely this can wait? Cross needs to shower and get dressed.”

“I don’t mind,” Cross offers, his voice lower and rougher than he likes. He winces at the sound of it, flushing when Dream tosses a concerned look his way. Nightmare for his part, blinks, the fiery glimmer in his eye replaced with admonishment. It’s a rare look on him. One that only Dream ever seems to be capable of eliciting.

“Ah, yes, my mistake. I did promise to escort you back to your room after all.”

At the mention of his room, Cross finds the dredges of anxiety in him amplifying once more.

By now, Killer will be in their shared bathroom. His false gut twists just thinking about hearing the water run with only a wall in between them and not being able to approach. He knows both the twins can sense his shift in mood, their gazes locking on him instantly. His emotional guards are flimsy, his mind weak and battered after the dialogue with Killer.

The brothers exchange looks with each other, full of wordless meaning. Somehow, it makes Cross feel even more isolated.

The negativity surges within him.

When Nightmare moves to touch him again, Cross takes half a step back. He’s not drowning like he was earlier. He can handle this much. It’s the least he can do.

Judging from the way the boss stiffens and drops his hand, he understands.

“Yeah, uh. A shower would be nice,” Cross says, trying to fill the heavy silence that’s descended between them all.

Nightmare hums his affirmation, and with a swipe of his hand and a flare of dark-bright magic, he tears an incision through the fabric of space in the middle of his bedroom. Despite having seen it countless times before, it never ceases to fill Cross with a sort of awe. The portal itself is deep black, a seeping corruption much like the viscous material that covers Nightmare’s bones. And yet, if Cross looks long enough, he swears he can make out the intricate details of his room within the subtle green shimmer of the yawning hole as it falters in the light.

“Ready?”

Cross nods and is about to take a step in towards it when Dream grabs him by the arm. Startled, he looks down at the soft eyelights peering up at him. When Dream doesn’t say anything, Cross makes a questioning noise.

Dream shakes his head. “Sorry, I just… We’ll see you at breakfast, okay?”

“Okay,” Cross says and even manages a small smile. It’s worth it to see the way Dream lights up, and Cross’ soul pangs at having neglected Dream so far. He should be showering him with all the praise and secret affection he’d hidden away for ages. Instead, he was hung up with correction mistakes he should’ve been smart enough to avoid in the first place.

But Dream is soothed for now and Cross is glad to have done at least one thing right since waking.

Once Dream lets him go, Cross takes another step towards the portal and decidedly does not rub his arm where Dream last touched him. Nightmare stands aside and makes room for him. Without prolonging the inevitable any longer, Cross passes through. He thinks he hears Nightmare whisper ‘good luck’ to him, but he’s wading through darkness before he can really distinguish it.

Then, one second he’s floating nowhere and everywhere all at once, and the next he’s standing beside his bed, sheets still unmade from when Killer found him covering his skull last night.

And speaking of Killer.

Cross redirects his attention towards the door on the opposite end from his bed. Sure enough, he can hear the sound of the shower running on the other side. A part of him wants to rush in there right now, maybe follow Killer into his room if he tries to cut him off again, but a bigger part of him feels frozen in place. He’s not sure what he’d do if he tried the door and found that it was locked. Killer’s certainly never locked it before, but if there was ever a time to do it, it’d be now.

The thought fills Cross with nerves, and it’s difficult to swallow down his anxiety. To distract himself, he drops the blanket he still has wrapped around his shoulders and goes to his closet to pick out some fresh clothes. He grabs them and then lays the garments out neatly on his bed, with more care than he usually ever does, trying to fill the time until his hands stop shaking. It’s not until he wraps a towel around his waist that they’re mostly steady.

Gathering his courage, Cross makes his way over to the bathroom door and knocks.

Almost immediately, the shower stops running, the raindrop patter of the water quieting to a tapering drip-drip.

Hesitant, Cross calls out, “Killer…?”

Silence.

There’s no telling if Killer isn’t saying anything because he’s waiting for Cross to continue or if he wants him to leave, and the uncertainty adds to the anxious buildup within him.

Nightmare leveled out his emotions, but at the pace he’s going, Cross could very easily fall right back into that pit if he lets his worries gnaw at him. He needs to be as calm about this as he can. Letting everything clutter up in his mind won’t be of any help.

Squeezing his sockets shut, Cross leans his forehead against the door and tries another tentative knock.

There’s no answer, but then the sound of the glass door being slid open echoes sharply. Cross opens his eyes with surprise, a faint glimmer of hope just starting to emerge. He steps back from the door, desperately searching for the moment Killer will yank it open and give him that impassive, cold stare. It’ll be far removed from their usual dynamic, but it’ll be something, and maybe Cross will have a chance to talk things out.

He waits, chest rising and falling faster with each passing second. There’s a clear racket going on on the other side, like Killer’s fetching his clothes from the same spot next to the marble faucet where he always mindlessly scatters them. There’s the distinct clink of knives against each other, the loud clatter of something falling in the sink before being set back upright, and then, the gentle patter of footsteps and the loud slam of a door.

Cross’ soul sinks.

It’s okay. He should’ve expected just as much anyways. If Killer doesn’t want to talk now, then Cross will just have to respect that. Forcing a conversation out of him might only end up pushing him further away, and that’s the last thing Cross wants to accidentally do.

His next breath is shaky, and he can feel his expression screw up as he blinks back tears before they can form. He swallows the lump in his throat and rubs the back of his hand across his face. It’s not like anyone will see him like this, but Cross won’t allow himself to break down so quickly yet again. If he repeats to himself that he’s fine, then soon enough, he’ll be forced to believe it. He just has to remind himself that he’s been through worse.

Slowly, he opens the door to the bathroom, surprised to find it unlocked.

Steam rushes out and drapes over him. With it comes Killer’s scent, the defining notes of his soap filling the space like he’s still in the room. Cross shamefully closes the door as fast as possible behind him so that the smell lingers. It’s utterly pathetic and humiliating, but just this is enough to bring the smallest measure of comfort back, overlaid by the painful memory it already evokes.

Feeling the heat of a fresh shower brings about a certain intimacy that clearly says Killer was just here. It’s nowhere near the same as being with him, but Cross is clinging to his hope by a thread, and he’ll take anything he can get at this point.

Staunchly choosing not to look in the mirror, Cross tugs his towel free and hangs it on the rack. Killer’s isn’t there, so he likely took it with him to hurry up drying off in his own room. Like he didn’t even want to linger, knowing that Cross was waiting for him.

Cross steps into the shower and turns the nozzle hard towards the heat. The water hits his shoulders, and steam fills up his skull. Eyeing the different soaps on the shelf, Cross stares a moment too long at Killer’s, considering, before shaking his head and grabbing his own.

He’s not going to fall that far. Even if he did use Killer’s, it would only backfire later when the others smell it on him. And it’s not like letting the scent of his soap cling to his bones throughout the day will improve Cross’ mood any. It’ll just be there—a constant reminder of what he’d taken for granted.

Cross snorts at himself, a small, high-pitched laugh escaping him at his own tremendous stupidity. His shoulders roll with the motion, the laugh continuing on, stealing his breath and squeezing the pulsing of his soul, tightening the knot in his chest until he realizes he’s not actually laughing at all but instead crying.

He gasps wetly, placing a steadying hand against the slick shower wall as hot tears pour unprompted down his cheeks, the salty taste spilling into his open mouth. He drops the bottle of soap and slaps his other hand over his mouth as soon as the first sob peals out, too loud. Cross leans his weight into the wall and tries to collect himself. This is stupid, he’s stupid, he shouldn’t even feel broken over this like he does because he’s responsible for this whole mess. His thoughts spit vitriol at him, poisonous guilt and hatred and anger at himself. He knows this is all his fault. He knows Killer holds none of the blame when he already apologized and cleared everything with Dream.

After all this time, Cross is still so, so selfish. It’s a wonder Killer stayed with him as long as he did. Maybe it’s because he knew as long as Cross didn’t have the others, didn’t have Dream, then he’d have no reason to act so childishly competitive over their lovers.

But, for that matter… are they even lovers now? Was last night just a one night stand? Dream had certainly seemed to imply that it would be something more, but how could he or Nightmare want Cross after the damage he’s already done to their relationship? After he’s proven just what a fuck-up he is, and how he always, always manages to make things worse.

None of these thoughts do anything to help Cross get a grip on himself, and he angrily grits his teeth. There will be time for his melodrama and self-loathing later. Right now, he needs to regain control over his emotions before he unintentionally draws Nightmare back over to him.

As he does his best to calm down, Cross can’t help but reflect on their parting barely seemed to affect Killer at all, though Cross saw tiny cracks through the untouchable facade he bore towards the end of their conversation.

Maybe it’s wrong of him to feel this way, but after watching Killer break just a bit at cutting things off between them, Cross has the slimmest anticipation that maybe Killer will feel just as wrong about ending their relationship and will give Cross a chance to make things right.

The hope flares.

As long as Killer remains just a little willing to hear him out, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll be able to go back to the way they were before this awful morning. If Cross has to get on his knees and beg for Killer’s forgiveness, he’ll just have to suck it up and do it. His pride and stubbornness have no place here at all, and he’ll be damned if he lets either ruin any last chance at reconciliation.

When he finally feels like his tears have stopped for the time being, Cross reaches down to grab the forgotten soap and begins to methodically wash himself as fast as possible. Dream and Nightmare will have breakfast ready soon, and Cross doesn’t want to miss a chance to get a private moment with Killer before then.

He’s changed his mind from earlier. If he lets this tension between them linger, it will only grow worse and push them apart even more. No, it’s better if he approaches sooner than later.

As soon as he finishes in the shower, Cross hastily steps out, grabs his towel, and opens the door back to his bedroom. He considers closing it shut, but after an uncertain glance over his shoulder at Killer’s firmly shut door, he decides against it. He wants to project a willingness to talk and be open, though it’s unlikely Killer will be the one to take that initiative.

All the more reason to catch him before he wanders off to be near the others. Cross dries off, throws on a turtleneck and a pair of sweats, tugs on a fresh pair of socks, and then hurries back through their shared bathroom over to Killer’s door.

Just like before, he lifts a hand to knock but then pauses. Given the last lack of response he got, it’s probable he won’t receive a better one this time either. He’s got to take the first step himself. Cross takes a quick breath, straightens his posture, and then opens the door.

His eyelights first fasten on the unmade bed that usually displays Killer’s lounging form atop it. Empty. As he looks around, in fact, he finds no sign of Killer at all, only a damp towel discarded on the floor and the other door in Killer’s bedroom leading out into the hall, wide open.

Cross sags in defeat.

It looks like he’ll have no choice but to get Killer alone post-breakfast. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Nightmare will have a mission for them to go out on together. That would give him the perfect opportunity to work things out. He and Killer have always been a little fuzzy with talking through their conflicts—going out and fighting side-by-side might rework things in a better way.

Clinging to that hope, Cross leaves through Killer’s open door and heads towards the dining hall.

He makes it there in short order, hardly even noticing the walk when his mind is still preoccupied. It takes him till he’s only a handful of feet away to notice that the large doors to the hall are closed and that Dream is standing outside of them. He waves when Cross makes eye contact, though it’s immediately obvious to Cross that his smile is strained. He frowns, picking up the pace and approaching Dream.

“All clean?” The smaller monster smiles up at him, and Cross’ soul twists as that bitter part of his thoughts reminds him that he doesn’t deserve it.

“Uh, yeah,” Cross manages, “Why are you standing out here?”

It’s worrying the way Dream’s gaze quickly shifts to the side, especially when it’s not quick enough for Cross to miss the flash of something too close to pity within it to make him comfortable.

“Oh, I’m just. Waiting for Nightmare and Killer to finish their conversation.”

A sudden sense of foreboding overtakes Cross, his body feeling heavy with it. “What are they talking about?”

“I’m… not sure,” Dream says, glancing up at Cross apologetically, “Killer came in and said he wanted to speak to Nightmare, and then Night asked me to step outside, so I figured I’d wait just here until they were done…”

It’s not like Dream to lie, but Cross can’t help but feel like it’s not the whole truth. A paranoid thought niggles at his mind—that Dream was specifically stationed here to wait for him. A deterrent to keep Cross from going any further. Like a slow-flowing poison, the thought spreads inside of him until fine tremors shake through his fingertips. Cross swallows down his nausea.

He makes his way towards the doors.

“Wait—Cross—we shouldn’t interrupt—!”

But Cross blocks out Dream’s protests. As much as he hates to upset him, the idea of letting whatever’s going on beyond those doors progress makes Cross’ anxiety shoot up. He loves Dream, loves him _so_ damn much, but he can’t sit back and wait while his chances to fix the situation keep slipping from his hands.

He pushes open the doors.

A deep creaking of the wood announces his presence, the doorway breathing open. Cross stands at the edge, looking to where Nightmare and Killer are at the head of the table. They glance up at the loud sound, Nightmare catching Cross’ eye in an instant. It doesn’t escape his notice that the boss’ gaze slides past him to Dream, before frowning and looking back again.

Killer, for his part, is completely unreadable. While he meets Cross’ gaze in an unwavering line, there’s nothing in it that Cross recognizes. No warmth, no humour, no familiarity of any sort. More than anything that’s happened so far this morning, that scares him.

“Impatient are we, Cross?” Nightmare drawls, taking a step away from Killer.

Cross shrugs. “Just excited for breakfast, I guess.”

His mind works in overtime, thoughts clashing against one another. Their silence when he entered sticks with him, like confirmation that they’d been discussing him right before he entered. It’s ridiculous of course, they can’t have had more than a handful of minutes to speak, and yet somehow Cross feels like they’ve already made up their minds about him. Talked over the obvious drawbacks to having him around and agreed that he’d dead weight.

Not worth keeping around at all.

Cross can feel himself sinking back into the depths of negativity when Nightmare suddenly smirks. That expression on his face is a relief; a reliable landmark in otherwise unexplored territory. “Of course, breakfast. In that case, by all means, take a seat. Killer and I were just about done.”

He’s not sure if it’s because he’s reading far too much into what’s happening at the moment, but he thinks Killer’s expression falls a little further at that, the corners of his mouth turning down.

Regardless, Cross nods and makes his way into the dining hall. Nightmare takes his place at the head of the table and peers past Cross, calling out to Dream behind him. After a brief hesitance, Dream moves as well, taking the seat on immediate left. Cross grabs the chair in his usual spot, two seats from Nightmare’s right.

“Killer,” Nightmare calls out, gesturing towards the chairs. “If you will.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Killer says, easy as anything.

Cross tries not to stiffen up at the sound of his voice. It’s a ridiculous reaction that he refuses to allow himself. Instead he straightens his spine and looks steadfastly ahead, trying to recapture his usual stubborn pride. But his conviction quickly whittles down when Killer finally sits, choosing the seat next to Dream instead of his usual spot beside Cross and directly to Nightmare’s right.

If the sudden silence that descends on the table is any indication, everyone else has noticed the change as well. Dream has his shoulders hunched up, hands clasped into tight fists on the table. Nightmare watches Killer wordlessly, his gaze piercing in the quiet. Cross feels the sting of rejection bite into his soul, more painful than any knife Killer has ever drawn against him.

Killer only grins. “What’s for breakfast?”

The empty silence reigns for only a moment longer before Nightmare sighs and waves his hand. With it, a flare of powerful magic unfolds, sapping away at Cross’ fatigue and restlessness, feeding on it, until black smoke gathers and takes shape all around them. The negativity condenses as much as it can, thicks wisps coalescing into something not quite solid nor liquid nor gas. They’re vaguely shaped like monsters, these shadow servants, and despite how long Cross has spent in Nightmare’s service, he never quite gets used to their appearances.

Upon creation, they bow to Nightmare and glide into action, bringing the food out from the kitchen and setting it on the table. They arrange the plates and fill their glasses before bobbing their heads once more. When Nightmare is satisfied, he waves his hand yet again and the servants fade away into smoke once more.

The arepa on Cross’ plate is a simple but pleasant surprise, piled with butter and quesito and sending an unexpected brush of warmth through him at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It’s been awhile since he’s had food from his childhood like this, and it’s only enhanced by the steaming mug of hot chocolate next to it. The bits of coconut inside make his soul flip-flop oddly, and he glances up at Nightmare and Dream, hoping his expression shows his gratitude, even though he knows they’ve both likely picked up on it the moment his emotions spiked.

“Thank you,” he says, and Nightmare nods, digging into his own breakfast while Dream smiles back at him.

Cross glances over to see if Killer has received much of the same, tender treatment. While the food on his plate is different from Cross’, it’s a bit familiar enough that he can identify the traces of Killer’s own cultural ties.

But as he stares in Killer’s direction, Cross’ eyes automatically fall to his soul, and the razor-like swirl of it sends his wavering mood back into a depressive crawl.

He returns his gaze to his own plate and digs in.

For a long while, the only sounds that fill the dining hall are the scraping of utensils and a loud, loud silence as no one says a word. Cross is certain if he were to look up, he’d find three accusative stares pinned on him. He feels like he’s been put on a stage, the spotlight bright and heavy as he sweats under its heat, every movement watched intently with painful critique. His hand slightly shakes as he reaches for his hot chocolate and takes a tentative sip.

It burns his tongue, bright with a sharp snap, but as it rests in his mouth, the delicious taste filling it, he tries to focus instead on this small delight and the comfort it has so often brought. The heat of the cup curls into his hand and spreads to his fingertips. Cross swallows and quickly takes another drink, the smell of chocolate reminding him of his brother making the very same drink for him on cold winter mornings, grin wide and so confident in Cross and the successful life he would carve out for himself.

Cross sets his cup down. If only Papyrus could see him and his fuck-up now.

Lost in thought, he’s startled by the sudden placement of a phone on the table. Nightmare taps quickly at the screen with one hand, fingers dancing along a keyboard before he sighs and locks it.

He looks up, and it’s like a signal for the others to pay attention. Cross straightens in his seat without thinking, momentarily setting aside his food as Nightmare glances at him and then redirects his gaze.

“We’ve only a few minutes before Horror and Dust arrive, so now seems to be the best time to establish some things while we have privacy.”

His tentacles shift behind him in a distracted manner, and his shoulders are a tense line even as he folds his hands on the table and looks between each of them evenly.

“I want us to all be on the same page going forward. And to start us off, let me be clear about one thing: this,” he gestures at the four of them, “is to be a polyamorous relationship. Dream and I have agreed that we want to explore the new dynamics this will introduce, and we want both of you equally. What you do with each other is your decision, so long as the other party consents.”

Surprisingly, Nightmare’s attention doesn’t focus on Killer specifically. He only pauses long enough to look each of them in the eye, seemingly searching for agreement to what he is saying.

Once he appears to be satisfied, he continues, “I don’t want this to turn into a competition of any sort. If any of you at any point feel like you’re being pushed to the side and slighted, whether intentional or not, speak up about it. The best way we can maintain a healthy relationship is if we are open with each other and communicate. I’m not saying you have to share everything you do with each other. Just try to be mindful of others while also keeping your own well-being at the forefront.”

Dream nods along, and Nightmare stares hard at him, long enough for Dream to furrow his brow and tilt his head inquisitively. Cross can only wonder what sort of emotions they’re picking up from each other, but from the defeated way Nightmare sighs shortly after, it’s left one of them unhappy.

“Great,” Killer drawls, pushing his food around on his plate with his dining knife. “So how do I skip the boring bits and hit accept on the Terms of Service?”

Cross snorts at that, grinning automatically and glancing Killer’s way, but it’s only a painful reminder of where they stand when Killer avoids looking in his direction at all, abruptly falling silent again. Cross grips his fork tight, knuckles straining against the silver. Killer’s dark, dark sockets are completely turned in the opposite direction, black dripping from them anew and sinking down his jawline.

“This is serious.” Nightmare narrows his gaze at Killer. “Perhaps if we were simply taking each other to bed on occasion, we could abridge this into a simple ‘don’t be a fucking idiot,’ but seeing as we’re effectively starting two new relationships apiece, we all need to be explicitly aware of how things stand going in.”

“That is,” Dream speaks up, voice quiet and hesitant, “If you both _want_ to start a relationship with us?”

There’s a lengthy pause after that, Nightmare leaning back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest. For once this morning, Cross isn’t focused entirely on Killer, instead watching the slow conflict battling on Dream’s face. There’s worry in his sockets, a sort of edge to his posture that speaks to a measure of guilt within him.

“I realise we haven’t exactly… _asked_. Not clearly, anyways. There has been a lot of assumption on our parts, and for that I apologise. So if you’d rather not be with us—if that sort of commitment isn’t what you’re looking for—”

“I want you,” Cross blurts.

He can’t help it. Not when the monster he’s loved for so long stumbles along sounding lost and unsure. This morning has been hell, but his feelings for Dream haven’t changed in the slightest.

Dream jumps a little, face colouring as he looks over at Cross. There’s surprise and wonder written in his eyelights, followed by a brush of relief that very nearly makes Cross smile. It takes a moment for the embarrassment to kick in. In fact, Cross doesn’t think of how ridiculous he must sound until he feels twin stares on him and glances to the side to see Nightmare and Killer peering at him.

Cross flushes. “I-I mean… I never really considered all of this before but… given the option now, I don’t have any reason to refuse. It’s what I always—”

He stops.

Suddenly, all he can think of is Killer’s parting words. Of the quiet _‘I’m glad you got what you always dreamt about’_ as he broke things off between them. Cross swallows, dry. A sweat breaks out over the back of his neck as the stares on him grow heavier and heavier. He finds that he can’t face Killer, too afraid of the expression he might be wearing as Cross trips over a confession that quotes exactly the reason why Killer left him.

Luckily, Nightmare speaks up before Cross can put his foot in his mouth any further.

“You do realise that this is a package deal? You’re not simply starting something with Dream alone.”

“Yeah, I—I’m aware,” Cross says, turning to meet Nightmare’s half-amused expression. He very carefully does not look at Killer. Instead, focusing on Nightmare, he shakes his head. “It’s. It’s not an issue.”

“Ah, I’m so glad not to be an ‘issue’ for you, Cross.”

His face heats. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I want you too,” Killer says, and for a brief, wild moment, Cross’ soul leaps in his chest, thinking that Killer is talking to him. “Both of you.”

The word choice is intentional, it has to be. It leaves Cross out so neatly, it can’t be anything but. He’d strike it up to paranoia, but he doesn’t miss the way Dream and Nightmare exchange another glance with each other, quick and fleeting. And once again, Killer isn’t looking at him, putting all his attention on Dream.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting the offer, but now that you’re asking, I’d be a fool to turn you down, little light.”

Killer smiles at Dream, his soul flickering, and it hurts more than Cross was expecting it to.

Dream gives Cross a slow, cautious once-over. It reminds Cross again to keep a better hold of his emotions. While Nightmare is probably subtly draining the excess negativity off of him, he doesn’t want to overwhelm Dream with his bullshit. Dream deserves better than that.

“Thank you, Killer,” Dream says, simply. There’s a genuine smile on his face, and he reaches out to place his hand on top of Killer’s, squeezing it softly. Killer’s soul flickers again, and it’s only because Cross has known him for as long as he has that he notices the brief spark of his eyelight in the otherwise pitch-black of his sockets before it fades out again.

“Figure that’s my line, sweetheart.”

Before the conversation can go any further, the doors of the dining hall burst open. All heads at the table turn to look as Horror and Dust walk in. Horror leads, his broad shoulders held back and his usual axe resting along them, his hand gripping the handle. Dust comes up behind, slouched and with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looks out at them from the shade of his hood, his eyelights glowing disconcertingly bright like they always do.

Nightmare sighs, “Just how many people am I going to have to remind about knocking?”

“Seeing as Killer gets away with it every time,” Horror grins, pulling up his usual seat with a loud scraping sound and clattering into it, “It’s only fair you give us some leeway once in a while, boss.”

“See, the difference here though is that the boss _likes_ me. He only tolerates you.” Killer smirks, backing smoothly away from Dream and using his dining knife to point at Horror. Nightmare mutters something vaguely disparaging under his breath that Cross doesn’t quite catch.

Horror rolls his eyelight, but the grin doesn’t leave his face. Neither does he stop staring Killer down from across the table, even as he places his axe on the floor by his feet. It’s normal for the two of them, smiles splitting wide across their faces as they size each other up like hound dogs. Horror doesn’t back off until Dust takes a seat beside him, a hand ghosting along his shoulder as he does so.

“If you two are quite done,” Nightmare interjects, “We’ll continue with breakfast. Though I assume you two already ate before arriving?”

Dust nods, his voice low. “Horror’s partner was… very hospitable towards us. Papyrus quite liked him.”

In an instant, Horror’s entire demeanor changes. His frightening grin is replaced with an easy smile, a true warmth to his eyelights as he beams and claps Dust solidly at his back. “Yeah, we had a real good time.”

But even as Nightmare hums his approval, Dust’s gaze flickers back to their boss with something reproachful. “As ‘good’ as it was, I would appreciate advance warning the next time you choose to… engage in your more _carnal_ desires outside the typically approved spaces.”

The immediate flush on Nightmare’s face is something of a shock. Nightmare is embarrassed, that much is obvious. But if it wasn’t for physical evidence of it, faint as it is, purple along the dark of his bones, Cross wouldn’t have suspected it at all. The way the boss had explained it, he’d planned everything this way from the start, hadn’t he?

“Yes, of course,” Nightmare says as Dream ducks his head, face bright gold with his magic. “There will not be a repeat of this. We were simply dealing with a bit of a… _situation_ that had to be handled.”

Nightmare directs a quick glance at Dream as he says this, the two brothers exchanging yet another look that confuses Cross. He can’t figure out what ‘situation’ they could possibly be referring to. The way their reactions are, it doesn’t seem to include Cross or Killer at all.

Dream smiles at Nightmare, encouraging. It helps Nightmare untense a little, and he continues speaking, “My apologies for the inconvenience. As I said, it will not be a repeat occurrence.”

“Wow,” Killer whistles, leaning back in his seat. “An apology from the boss himself. What’s that like?”

The flush on Nightmare’s face goes a little darker. Horror’s face twists up in confusion, but Dust takes it in stride, laying his hands flat on the tabletop and pushing back from it, ready to stand up again.

“Now that we’ve settled that, I’ll take my leave.”

“Not quite,” Nightmare interrupts, gesturing at Dust to sit down again. Dust does so with a long-suffering sigh. “Since we’re all here, I might as well announce a few administrative changes that we’ll have to keep in mind going forward.”

“Administrative changes?” Horror asks.

“Yes. There’s going to be a slight alteration to our usual mission protocol.” Even as Nightmare speaks, Cross can feel a cold, hollow certainness settle over him. He knows what’s coming. He _knows_ , and as Nightmare shifts to look in his direction, it’s only confirmation for the blow he can already see approaching. “You will be changing partners, effective immediately—Cross, you’ll be working with Dust, and Horror, you’ll be paired with Killer.”

He’s out of his seat and slamming his hands down on the table before he can control his outburst. “ _Why_?”

Horror shouts some sort of protest of his own, along with a murmur of discontent from Dust, but Cross doesn’t hear it. He can’t. Not when the sound of his soul thumping restless against his ribcage drowns out everything else.

His breakfast lays forgotten, hot chocolate gone cold. The little he ate roils in the pit of his body, making him nauseous. He can taste the acrid bite of his own fear in the back of his throat. This is exactly what Killer talked to Nightmare about, isn’t it? Two _years_ they haven’t changed the mission matchups—there’s no way Nightmare would just coincidentally change them now.

“Honestly, boss,” Horror says, “Sorta feels like you made this decision outta nowhere.”

“You four need to be kept on your toes.” Nightmare’s voice is cool and distant, like every word out of his mouth is the only logical outcome. There’s a thread of pity in his tone that Cross isn’t entirely sure he’s imagining, and his body shakes at the implications of it. “You should be able to work seamlessly with anyone on the team.”

“Why _now_?” Cross croaks before his words fail him.

There’s more he wants to say, more he wants to ask, but his throat closes up, thick with emotion. Through it all, Killer _still_ doesn’t look at him, and somehow that only makes things worse. Especially when Horror and Dust glance between the two of them, as if only just noticing how far apart they’re sitting and how they haven’t said a word to each other since they got here. A far change from their usual constant bickering.

“Cross…” Dream calls out to him, but Cross doesn’t look. If he does, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep the bare control he has over his emotional guards right now. Anything could make them come crashing down.

“I think it sounds fun.” The sound of Killer’s voice makes Cross’ breath catch. He clenches his fists tight, counts backwards and forwards from ten. Nothing helps. Out of the corner of his eye, Nightmare’s tentacles curl towards him, like they’re instinctually drawn in by his sinking aura. “It’ll be like the old days, huh Horror?”

Horror takes his time answering. His earlier grin is gone, his expression unreadable. Cross wonders if he’s picking through Killer’s words like Cross is. If Horror remembers that the ‘old days’ were when it was just Horror, Dust and Killer, before Cross ever entered the picture.

Killer’s always been good with words—he knows just what to say to hit Cross where it hurts.

“I guess so,” Horror offers, and doesn’t engage further.

“How long will this little switch-up last?” Dust asks with obvious displeasure.

It stings, and Cross can’t help the way he winces. If things were normal, Cross might’ve rolled his eyelights and said he had no interest in working with a psychopath like Dust either. As it stands, it’s one more rejection to add to the pile.

“As long as it needs to,” Nightmare replies at a length. The answer is cryptic at best, and Dust’s mouth curls, but he doesn’t press.

“I see… Well, is there anything else? Or are we done with our little impromptu meeting?”

“Careful,” the boss chides Dust, a warning for the uppity touch to his words. Dust tenses, inclining his head a little in deference. “But yes. There’s nothing further I need to discuss with any of you. You are dismissed.”

All at once, the chairs clatter as several of them stand up. Cross hasn’t sat down since his initial outburst. He remains frozen where he is, watching out the corner of his vision as Killer starts to walk away.

“Ah, except for you, Killer. If you could stay a moment.”

Killer pauses at Nightmare’s call, turning around and facing him with a tight grin. “Okie dokie, boss.”

Nightmare redirects his attention towards Dream and Cross, one after the other. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask the both of you to wait outside as well.”

“Of course, Night,” Dream says, and yet again, the brothers trade looks that speak volumes. Cross is the only one out of the loop, grinding his teeth as he turns away from them without another word. He hears Dream call after him, but he ignores it, stalking towards the dining hall doors.

Outside, Horror and Dust are waiting for him.

“Hey,” Horror whispers in that too loud way of his, grabbing Cross by the shoulder to keep him in place when he tries to keep moving past them. “Did something happen between you and Killer last night?”

“Define ‘something’,” Cross says, too sharp.

He sounds haughty, even to his own hearing, but Horror only grins at him.

“Ain’t asking if you two fucked—pretty sure I can figure that one out myself.” Cross glowers at him, shaking off Horror’s hold. The other skeleton holds his hands up in front of himself, still smiling, and doesn’t try to grab Cross again. “Seriously though, what happened? I haven’t seen Killer force a smile that hard since… fuck, must be years now.”

He doesn’t think too deeply on that. Doesn’t try to figure out just what changed in Killer’s life that made his laughter a little more real.

“And you think _I_ can somehow fill you in?”

“Well, yeah. You two were together last night, weren’t you?”

But before Cross can think up any sort of bristly retort, Dust interrupts, quiet and invasive.

“Did you break up?”

The silence that follows is thunderous.

Cross can’t speak. He can’t move.

He can’t keep eye contact, dropping his gaze to the floor as his sockets start to prickle again. His soul aches like an untended wound, and it takes all Cross has not to reach up and grab at it through his shirt. He won’t let Horror and Dust see him like that.

“We were never dating in the first place,” he whispers, voice so torn up and hollow that it makes him wince to hear it. Neither of his teammates respond, an awkward, tense moment unfolding around them.

Cross takes the opportunity to push past them both, heading back down the hall towards his room. No one tries to stop him, and Cross doesn’t hesitate.

If this is what Killer wants, then fine.

Cross won’t bother him anymore.

The moment Cross hurries out of the dining hall, his back to everyone, Killer’s gaze follows after him, his expression painfully tight in a futile attempt to hide the turmoil within. Nightmare can see the yearning on his face as if Killer had admitted to feeling as much. It’s a reminder that despite the messy outcome of last night’s misunderstanding, Cross is not the only one at fault.

Nightmare holds just as much blame here. And curiously enough, Killer seems to have forgiven him for it entirely—or at least chosen to ignore Nightmare’s part in his near death.

Inexcusable.

For over five hundred years, Nightmare has lived and learned and grown, and while he’s made a plethora of mistakes, he can truthfully say he has always avoided rushing headfirst into decisions. Doing so only invites room for error and consequence. No matter the choices he makes, Nightmare always evaluates a situation from every possible angle before deciding his next step. It’s kept him and his gang safe and elusive over the years, which is why such careful evaluation for a decision involving one of his own should have been handled with even more discretion.

Last night, he had been willing to cast all of that aside. All because he had allowed himself to assume that something terrible—unpardonable—had happened to Dream. What’s more, he’d been willing to unleash the misery he felt over his own failure to protect his brother and project all of that onto Killer.

There is no denying it. Nightmare fucked up, dealing devastating damage to Killer’s trust in him. How Killer has simply chosen to waive that escapes Nightmare.

As it stands, his right-hand plops himself back in his chair and waits impassively while the others file out. Dream attempts to follow after Cross, but it’s clear that the youngest soldier needs to be alone for a while. His outstretched hand slowly drops back to his side, and he casts a dismal look back at Nightmare. Letting Killer and Cross sort things out on their own seems less and less like a possibility that will end with either party talking to each other. Both he and his brother will have to intervene at some point, though attempting to broach the topic with either of them now may only result in emotionally stunting them even more.

And it would be incredibly inappropriate to mention that now when Nightmare needs to resolve his own slight he’s made against Killer.

He nods at Dream to signal that they will talk later. His brother still looks dejected, but he gives a small nod of his own and then exits, gently squeezing Killer’s shoulder as he passes. The heavy clash of the dining hall doors closing reverberates through the arched ceiling and along the stone walls. Alone with Killer, Nightmare feels a tinge of discomfort that can only be attributed to his own uncertainty of how to proceed.

Because how does one apologize for almost killing their most trusted ser— No. Killer is far more than that now. Nightmare’s not blind to the changes his relationship with Killer has taken throughout the years.

For a long time, he could never see anything but a reckless, lewd, and unrestrained youth, stepping over the line as far as he could reach and grinning wide through the retribution whenever he pushed too far. Killer’s always done things his way, arranged to his own tastes, and the insight he’s provided Nightmare on how to look at situations from an angle entirely beyond his own scope is irreplaceable. Since his beginning here as a wild and formerly apprehensive worker, Killer has weaseled his way into Nightmare’s confidence, schemed into his good graces, and slowly, worked day after tireless day to reach the special place he has claimed in Nightmare’s soul.

He’s more than irreplaceable. He’s...

“Boss?”

Nightmare snaps out of his thoughts, eyelight flicking up to Killer. The other stares listlessly back, and that expression is not at all right. No, it should be lascivious or conniving as Killer has always looked at him when he catches Nightmare’s gaze. Not forcefully blank and unfamiliar. Even when they’d first met, Killer had had a spark to him that spoke enticingly dangerous volumes.

With the way he regards Nightmare now, he might as well be looking at a stranger.

His emotions are also conveniently hidden behind an iron wall in his mind. Nightmare curses himself for ever teaching Killer how to shield his feelings from him, if only because getting a read on him now is like straining to peer through a dusty and distorted lens. He can catch figments of what Killer might be feeling, though even that is enough to heighten Nightmare’s guilt.

His hands fiddle restlessly as eloquence fails him. For the first time, Nightmare finds maintaining eye contact impossible. The table suddenly becomes a lot more appealing.

“There’s something I need to say to you about last night,” he says, quiet.

A gentle rasp of shifting clothes follows Nightmare’s words as Killer sits just a bit closer. When he says nothing in response, Nightmare continues.

“We— I made some grave miscalculations when Cross and I found you and Dream alone. Granted though the scene appeared far from...” he waves a hand to gesture vaguely at what he means but finds no proper way to paint the picture without being unpleasantly blunt. Sighing, he prattles on, “That is to say, when I arrived and found you two in the position you were, it left me with a deep, profound dread. I take pride in carefully selecting those whom I allow into my inner circle. For a long time, you’ve been someone I’ve valued immeasurably, and I wouldn’t ever want to replace that. I don’t believe I could, because you are someone whose presence I have come to admire and cherish.”

A faint heat blooms on his cheeks, and he’s shamefully grateful to not have to see Killer watching him in such a vulnerable state, regardless of their more obscene activities the night before. Nevertheless, he ignores it as best he can and clears his throat.

“Choosing sentimentality instead of cold, indisputable rationale is not my style. It’s unheard of and irresponsible, and I never meant to let such rash thoughts with no proof or basis rule how I react to something. And that’s why I would like to clarify that my actions the night before, though undoubtedly wrong, were never made with the intent to find a reason to k—to harm you.”

He takes a deep breath. His own tentacles betray how the one-sided discussion is affecting him, and it takes more strength than normal to ease them back into a pile on the floor, two of them coiling tight around the legs of the chair. It’s akin to squeezing his fists and feeling that necessary tension as he braces himself. After another deep, subtle inhale, Nightmare plunges straight into the difficult heart of the conversation.

“You must understand that the connection Dream and I share surpasses a conventional, stereotypical relationship. We are intrinsically tied to each other and have been from the moment of our creation. For us to exist without the other is unimaginable and impossible. Death would not be a solitary possibility—it would be mutual, simultaneously shared on both sides. And similarly, if one of us were to be hurt in such an irreparable manner…”

Nightmare at last directs his monologue away from the table and lifts his head. He fixes Killer with a determined eye.

“Nothing would be more catastrophic or unforgivable.”

The pause after the statement weighs down on them like an invisible interference. Speaking his mind like that has erased some of the pressure in Nightmare’s chest, and he waits patiently for Killer to digest what he’s been told.

Hopefully, Nightmare expressed himself concisely enough. He doesn’t want any confusion to leave room for doubt and come between him and his rectification with Killer.

The skeleton in question remains as empty as before, though his fingers begin to tap-tap-tap repeatedly against the table, a distraction that doesn’t exactly tell Nightmare if Killer’s upset or just deep in thought.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Is this an apology?” Killer finally speaks up.

Nightmare slowly nods, though the question strikes him as not just odd but also alarming.

“Yes,” he says and tries to keep any hesitance out of his voice. It’s not for a lack of being truthful. He just can’t figure why such an inquiry would even be necessary.

Killer keeps on staring, elongating a silence between them that doesn’t feel as reassuring as it should. The seconds tick past, replacing Nightmare’s brief reprieve with mounting concern once again.

Did he say something wrong? True, his confession had been an ugly mess of stops and starts, but he’d been as honest as possible in explaining his position and the reasons behind his actions. It’s not an excuse for how he behaved, but surely it should aid Killer in understanding why he reacted the way he did.

“Cool,” Killer says, “Can I go now?”

Nightmare gapes at him, a long quiet extending between them. “I don’t understand.”

Killer sighs, and the sound is so unlike him that Nightmare almost recoils.

“That sure was a lot of words for something that just needed two.” Killer gets up from his seat, still blank-eyed. His emotions remain tightly wrapped up, nothing seeping out for Nightmare to gauge by. “But thanks, boss. It was more than I expected.”

Killer waits, clearly ready to leave but loyal enough to stay until Nightmare dismisses him.

The situation they’re in is wholly new to Nightmare. In all the years he’s been alive, he’s never allowed himself to get close enough to anyone to have to lay himself bare. Even now, when Killer is only inching into that part of himself that Nightmare hides away, he feels unsettled.

“Are we… okay?”

Killer smiles, but it’s with none of his usual bolster. “Yeah. We’re fine, boss.”

It hasn’t escaped his notice that Killer hasn’t called him by name once since they’ve spoken this morning. Though he says things are fine, there’s an obvious disparity between his words and his actions. Nightmare isn’t quite sure how to tackle it.

“Well… good,” he manages, “That’s… excellent.”

“Sure,” Killer agrees, “We done?”

“Yes. That’s all. I will call you again if there’s anything further to discuss.”

He says the words on automatic, falling on formality when faced with something so different from the norm. It’s not often that Nightmare is caught off-guard, but Killer has somehow left him floundering. It’s more than a little embarrassing, and Nightmare can only stand by helplessly as Killer walks away, heading out the doors.

Slowly, Nightmare makes his way out as well. Dream is waiting for him, back pressed to the wall. The expression on his face says that he saw exactly the state Killer was in. Worry etches into his face, making Nightmare’s soul twist.

“How’d it go?” Dream asks, though it’s clear he knows the answer.

Nightmare shakes his head, and his brother’s expression falls.

They stare on into the empty hall in front of them, silent and thoughtful. It seems that things are going to take quite a while to return to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the end of the second installment of the series!! >:D
> 
> We'll be moving into Dream's arc next, which will be one out of four of the main arcs in ATOS. ✨ We might do a little side fic before that, just to get some soft, pre-angst Kross in there, but we'll see how things work out ;3
> 
> As always, thank you for sticking with us! It's been a hell of a year with these boys :") 💖


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